The Importance of Hobbits
by Rivergift
Summary: AU. What if Gandalf had not persuaded Elrond to allow Merry and Pippin to go on the Quest? How much can two small hobbits change the future?
1. Chapter 1

Hello! This is my first fic, and I am not in the slightest bit confident about it. It seems a bit too much to take on, a great big multi-chapter AU as your first try, but this idea simply intrigues me! I have written quite a few chapters in advance, so hopefully writer's block will not delay updates too much =)

The premise: What if Gandalf had failed to convince Elrond to let the two younger hobbits go on the Quest? Just how much can the future be changed by the presence (or absence) of two small hobbits? Primarily bookverse, but some movie aspects might slip in here and there... /guilty look This is unbeta-ed, all mistakes are my own. I have tried my very best to get the dates right, but if you find an inconsistency, or that it simply doesn't make sense or doesn't fit with the book, please tell me, through a review or a PM. Thank you very much =)

x

_"There remain two more to be found," said Elrond. "These I will consider. Of my household I may find some that it seems good to me to send." _

_"But that will leave no place for us!" cried Pippin in dismay. "We don't want to be left behind. We want to go with Frodo." _

_"That is because you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies ahead," said Elrond. _

_"Neither does Frodo," said Gandalf, unexpectedly supporting Pippin. "Nor do any of us see clearly. It is true that is these hobbits understood the danger, they would not dare to go. But they would still wish to go, or wish that they dared, and be shamed and unhappy. I think, Elrond, that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to their friendship than to great wisdom. Even if you chose for us an Elf-lord,such as Glorfindel, he could not storm the Dark Tower, nor open the road to the Fire by the power that is in him." _

_"You speak gravely," said Elrond, "but I am in doubt. The Shire, I forebode, is not free now from peril; and these two I had thought to send back there as messengers, to do what they could, according to the fashion of their country, to warn the people of their danger. In any case, I judge that the younger of these two, Peregrin Took, should remain. My heart is against his going." _

_"Then, Master Elrond, you will have to lock me in prison, or send me home tied up in a sack," said Pippin. "For otherwise I shall follow the Company." _

_"Let it be so then. You shall go," said Elrond, and he sighed._

-The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

**Note**: Updated 20 Feb 11. I added a bit about the Hobbits' reactions, thanks to **Abject Tears'** idea. Many thanks to her ;D

* * *

_December 25th, T.A. 3018_

Chill winds had somehow sneaked into fair Imladris, and it was cold even for winter. The courtyard was quiet, waiting almost, with an anticipation that belied the dark forebodings of quite a few people. But that was not the reason for the heavy frown on one Grey Pilgrim's face, bushy eyebrows drawn together and nearly bristling with tension. Indeed, one would not have been too surprised if they had started sizzling.

In the space stood the Fellowship of the Ring, off to save the world, and most likely die in the process. It was not a pleasant prospect, but the brave hearts that beat in the breasts of those who would set forth this day did not quail, even if Frodo did squeeze Sam's arm a little harder than normal, and even if Gandalf's eyebrows looked as if lightning might strike them at any given moment.

He looked slowly around, but could find only courage and nobility in the faces around him. And yet his heart could not rest, somehow.

Boromir of Gondor stood closest to him, clad in the finery of the White City that he had arrived in, shield borne on his back and horn in his hand. The Steward's son's attention was fixed on Frodo, his thoughtful, concerned gaze not discomfiting the hobbit in the slightest. Gandalf felt the slightest stirrings of doom in his heart, and there was a hint of desire in those proud eyes that boded ill, but it was not Boromir who worried him, not yet.

Legolas of Mirkwood stood beside him, eyes on Elrond as the Lord of Rivendell spoke his parting words to the Fellowship. Tall and slender was the Sindar, as was the Elves' wont, slight and yet well-muscled, and Gandalf knew that a deceptive strength lay in those arms. The Eldar might look physically smaller than others, but the strength and speed gifted to them surpassed that of mortals, and the loyalty in the Elf's eyes reassured Gandalf. Legolas had spent the majority of his long years in defence of Mirkwood, and he would not fail the Ring-bearer.

Frodo and Sam stood together, looking so small and insignificant in the company that he smiled, for he knew better than anyone just how surprising these Halflings could be. Frodo might be small, but had a great heart, he was already sure of it, and was taking after Bilbo in terms of unexpected strength. Their Ring-bearer possessed a quiet authority, a gentle spirit, and if anyone, anyone at all, could break the Dark Lord's dominion, it would be this one. Sam stood by his master, and Gandalf was absolutely sure that he would face down a Balrog, should it threaten his master. Sam, simple, brave Sam, who had taken Gandalf's advice to heart. No, he would never lose his master.

Gimli, son of Gloin, was next, and the stubborn steadfastness of the Dwarves was outlined in this stout figure. He was proud, no doubt of it, just as Legolas was, and Gandalf suspected they would not exactly keep the peace, but they were good warriors, loyal to a fault, and they would not fail Frodo, by life or death.

The one who had first made that oath stood a little behind Gimli, in the shadows as he had spent so much of his life. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son of ancient kings, Heir of Gondor, and his friend. For over 50 years he had known the Dúnadan, watched him grow from a noble young man to a battle-hardened ranger, and yet still so noble- so very, very noble. The Hope of Middle-earth would, without a moment's hesitation, give his life for the Ring-bearer, and Gandalf believed in him perhaps the most out of all the Company. Aragorn walked a hard road, but its end was nigh.

No, the reasons for his dismay were two identical, dark-haired Elves that stood flanking Aragorn.

They were trustworthy. They possessed the strength and agility of the Elves, their hearts were brave and good and true, and they would most probably not fall to the temptation of the Ring, though no one could be certain about that. Their love and familiar presence would strengthen their foster brother on the way, and although it was slightly unfair to have three Elves against one Dwarf, that was not a major concern. In other words, Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond, were well-fitted for the Quest, very well-fitted. He should have been satisfied.

But fear struck at his heart, for the two who should have been here were not.

* * *

_December 1st, T.A. 3018_

"They are too young, Mithrandir. Too young and too innocent and too irresponsible."

The hidden valley of fair Imladris hosted, at the moment, an extremely stubborn Maia and an even more stubborn Elf Lord, which was not a particular good combination. They had been debating this subject for hours (without success) and both were quickly losing patience, but far too disciplined to indulged in a shouting match (although greatly tempted). The topic of the last two members to fill the spaces in the Fellowship was controversial, to say the least.

"That is true, they are young. But so are Frodo and Sam, inexperienced and untried."

"Frodo at least is not untried, and he was meant to be the Ring-bearer. Samwise's loyalty is undoubted, and he will be a steadfast companion for his master. Meriadoc and Peregrin, on the other hand, treat all this as some kind of glorified adventure. A joke."

"They made it to Imladris along with Frodo and Sam. They are loyal to Frodo as well, and all four are bonded by friendship and love. Their cheer will sustain Frodo on this dark road, when he needs it most. Elrond, you underestimate them. They will be true when their time comes"

"Aye, as I said, they are good-hearted. When they are called upon to stand forth, they will: But what can they do? It remains that they have no reason to go on. They will be in great danger-"

"As will all the Walkers."

"The others are tried warriors, and know well the dangers they are walking towards. You cannot deny that they have all spent long years fighting the Shadow, and even the two Hobbits are acquainted with it, now. The younger two, on the other hand, have not the slightest idea of it. They may have faced the Black Riders, but they were terrified. They should return to their home, where they can be safe."

"Nowhere is safe now."

"Safer!"

"Elrond, safety has got nothing to do with anything. They wish to go. You do not know how passionate these Halflings can be, when their hearts are aroused. They will burn Imladris down before they let Frodo go."

"They must."

"You have been arguing for hours now."

"We have not been arguing." They retorted in unison, looking up from their argu- debate to glare darkly at the Heir of Isildur, who stood in the doorway and remained remarkably unaffected.

"All right, you have been _discussing_ this for hours now. May I humbly suggest- "

"No."

A sigh of exasperation escaped Aragorn's lips. "You seem to have no trouble at all agreeing on my interference in this conversation, can you not agree on your chosen topic as well?"

"No." Aragorn was now quickly losing patience, but he had had decades of experience in dealing with stubbornness, whether from Elves, Half-Elves, Men, wizards and, on occasion, Dwarfs, and he had no intention of letting that go to waste. They had not just been discussing this for hours, they had been discussing it for weeks, and even if both beings were immortal and thus slightly less worried about the passing time that mortals, they had to see that time was short. The Shadow was growing, and every day that went by meant more information reaching the Enemy, and he knew- they all knew- that they only had this short window of time to leave Imladris.

They had no time for Elves and Wizards to argue, for that was what they were doing, to their heart's content- and probably not reach a conclusion in the end.

"He is right." Gandalf did not particularly enjoy admitting that anyone else was right and he was wrong, but in this case, it was necessary. "Time grows short. We must decide, Elrond. Now."

"You are correct. And that is why I appeal to you, let your foresight rest for once, and allow me to send two Elven warriors on the quest. They will be more competent, you know that. Those two hobbits _are_ good-hearted, and loyal, but they do not have the slightest inkling how to fight, and you know Frodo will need protection."

"We need stealth, not strength. And, Elrond, if you send your sons, Arwen will be devastated."

Something welled in the Elf's eyes, a mixture of hurt and anger, and it manifested itself in a voice of dark fury. "Do not bring my children into this, Mithrandir."

"But your children are undeniably tangled in it already."

"Well do I know that!" Elrond cast a look at Aragorn's expressionless face. "But do not try emotional blackmail on me, wizard. It will not work. If needs must that Arwen must fade so that Middle-earth may be saved, then so it will be. If it is saved..." He looked at the Man again. "If it is saved, I shall lose her anyway- and I do not begrudge it."

Gandalf sighed, chastised. "Forgive me. I should not have mentioned her."

Elrond inclined his head. "And so if we may return to our original point, I still maintain that I should send Elves. If not my sons, then perhaps some warriors."

"You have both reiterated these points about a million times, and if you hadn't noticed, the Company cannot wait until the next yén for your decision." Aragorn interjected, and both fell silent, and pondered their thoughts.

"Elrond," Gandalf spoke at last. "I know that it is not logical or practical to bring those two along, and if you are not swayed by this, I will submit to your decision. I do not say that the Quest will succeed if they go, nor that it will fail if they do not. But my heart speaks, and it says that they hold the power to change many things, so many things that we cannot see to all the far-reaching places that they will affect. The world will have cause to give thanks that they go, is all I can say. Somehow, sometime, they will affect the future, maybe not intentionally, maybe not even for the better... But they will change it, if they go."

Elrond was silent for a long moment.

"No, Mithrandir." He said finally, and the Maia's shoulders slumped, till he suddenly looked like a very, very old man, tired and frail. "I am sorry, but I must insist. I will send two warriors of my household."

Gandalf sighed. "So be it."

Aragorn wondered at the sudden coldness that took hold of his heart. His foster father's words made sense, and he trusted Elrond's wisdom with all his heart. If the two send were indeed his brothers, the journey would be considerably more pleasant. But he had learnt to listen to Mithrandir, and could it be his own foresight that stirred within him now, warning him with a disconcerting urgency that this was not the right choice?

Not the right choice at all.

* * *

_December 6th, T.A. 3018_

Gandalf settled himself ponderously onto the oak-laden armchair, leaning back into the mound of silken pillows, and tried his best to avoid the small, bright eyes that followed his every movement.

Frodo's deep blue eyes were boring into him with a gaze that was disturbingly penetrating. Frodo had always been quiet and perceptive, but to be able to read a wizard was unprecedented. _Could it be that the Ring..._ But he would not think of that, not now.

Sam looked embarrassed. But then he always did, when encountering anybody except perhaps Frodo, Merry and Pip. His simple brown eyes were open and unguarded, in stark contrast to Frodo's closed glance, and Gandalf could see curiosity in there, too.

Merry- strong, brave, intelligent Merry, had a curious mixture of Frodo and Sam in him. Open and honest, and yet frighteningly perceptive, Gandalf feared that Meriadoc Brandybuck had already guessed their verdict.

And Pippin.

Pippin, little Pippin, with wide eyes that filled with wonder and laughter at the slightest drop of a leaf, whose soul was laid so bare before everyone, whose spirit was still so untouched by the evil that had brushed all of them. He was open, yes, but with a naiveté that did not show in either Sam's or Merry's eyes. Pippin, thought Gandalf with an uncomfortable shiver, would happily chat away with an orc if it so much as smiled at him.

And he'd probably mistake a glower as a smile, too.

It was this disconcerting thought that made him take hold of his resolve and speak.

"Lord Elrond and his council have discussed this matter at length. We have decided that with Frodo, Sam will go." None of them looked particularly impressed; they'd known that already. "But Pippin, Merry, I'm sorry. You must return to the Shire."

There was silence, before Merry turned away sharply, silent and withdrawn. Pippin cried out indignantly, "But we want to go with Frodo!"

"What you want is hardly Lord Elrond's top priority, foolish Took." Gandalf returned gruffly, trying not to wish that for once Pippin's wishes were followed. "You will return to Hobbiton and warn them of what will come."

"What _will _come?"

"Death, Pip." It was Merry who answered him, quietly and with a maturity that belied Elrond's earlier words. "If Frodo does not succeed, so much more than just our cousin will perish. Middle-earth will fall into shadow, and the Hobbits' laughter will be crushed, and all that is green and good in this world will be gone.** We will go back, Peregrin, to wait and watch for the day the Shire burns."

Pippin's face turned white, and he stared wordlessly at Merry, before leaving the room in startling, stark silence, and Gandalf with a sick feeling at Merry's words, so chilling and definite and frightening in one so young.

Sam looked horrified, Merry looked resigned- and Frodo looked indescribably happy.

There was unmistakable joy in the Ring-bearer's face, and his inscrutable eyes turned transparent as sweet relief filled his face. Frodo's greatest fear, Gandalf realised, was of letting his friends die in his quest.- Pippin and Merry most of all, for they were so young.

_Well, at least Frodo will have less distractions,_ was his rather inadequate consolation.

* * *

_December 25th, T.A. 3018_

_'This is my last word. The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid. . . . The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy will it be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road.'*_

_They may indeed be your last words to me, Elrond._ The thought came unbidden to Gandalf, and he frowned at such morbid ideas. It was perfectly possible that he might not come back, true, but he did not need to dwell on that now.

_Perhaps..._

A cold breeze whipped into the courtyard, and Gandalf shuddered slightly. In front of him, Frodo turned, trembling slightly, and with Sam's firm presence behind him.

The Ring-bearer led the way out of Imladris, and there was not turning back now, no matter what Elrond said. One by one, the Walkers followed.

Sam followed his master, leading Bill, and already whispering anxiously to Frodo, no doubt about something he'd forgotten, perhaps that they'd packed too little food. Sam had been rather adamant that Hobbits needed their nourishment.

Then came Aragorn, striding forward, head bowed in silent thought. Legolas and Gimli walked forward next, as if in some unspoken truce- for now. And the twin sons of Elrond followed, shoulder to shoulder, moving in sync, motion to motion. Boromir, son of Gondor, walked forward, and finally, Gandalf followed them, chasing darkness from his thoughts, and setting his gaze firmly on the road ahead.

The Quest had begun.

* * *

Please review!

**A/N**: The words in italics are going to appear rather often! They signify that they are taken from the original Lord of the Rings book, simply because I cannot resist segueing in a few references to Tolkien's work- it's just too beautiful to let lie! So I try to fit in these little portions of the book where they make sense, as a little tip of the hat to their author, who wrote these amazing stories for us to read and dream about!

_*Pgs 273-274, The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version._

_**Paraphrased from a scene in Two Towers the movie, when Treebeard refuses to go to war._


	2. Chapter 2

Here is the next chapter! Thank you to the reviewers.

* * *

_January 4th, T.A. 3019_

Gandalf was seriously reconsidering thinking that the Elves versus Dwarves debate was not a major concern.

It was a _very_ major concern right now, as far as he or anyone within a 100 yard radius of them, in other words, the Fellowship were concerned. A very major concern because those two- occasionally four- infuriating creatures simply refused to back down. Any faint hopes of the Elves using their ancient wisdom to restrain themselves or the Dwarf using his iron determination to stop himself had soon faded, seeing as they all seemed to be using these assets to think of the best insults to hurl in each other's directions. It was annoying, to say the least. Every member of the Fellowship was extremely tired of hearing the greatnesses and downfalls of each race painted in detail, and had they been offered either to shut up all living beings on Middle-earth belonging to the races of Elves of Dwarves or to throw down Sauron forever, they would have been hard-pressed to choose.

"Pointy-eared arrogant elflings!"

"Excuse me? We are more more than ten times your age, Master Dwarf. Perhaps we ought to make allowances for your tender age of immaturity, but we are not elflings."

You could practically hear the Company grinding their teeth.

"Immaturity? I am a Dwarven warrior, well into my adulthood, well-respected and a son of Glóin. You shall not get away with such petty, untrue insults! You act like elflings in any case!"

Elladan's lips were pressed tightly together in a commendable show of self-control. His twin, however, appeared to have no such restraints, and immediately retorted something about stupidity, pride, and the general incompetence of the Dwarven race, while Legolas smirkedj. "Your father was a thief, a gold-slave!"

Gimli's face turned an interesting shade of red. Sam rather imagined it might be quite near to the colour of a volcano erupting, and he edged closer to Frodo, staring apprehensively at Gimli as if awaiting an explosion.

And explode he did.

Amongst the Dwarven curses and incomprehensible snorts, they picked up the idea of Thranduil's 'conceit, rather like to a puffed-up bullfrog, his audacity and foolishness, and his utter stupidity in attempting to imprison Glóin of the Lonely Mountain'.

"Mithrandir." Aragorn stepped to Gandalf's side, a weary look on his face. They were all tired, uncomfortable, sore, and with four loudly arguing beings on their hands, ready to scream. "Perhaps we ought to stop for the night. The hobbits are tired, and we have made good progress." _And hopefully they will stop arguing long enough for us to sleep._ Gandalf nodded, hopeful as well. It had been five days since he gave up trying to tell them to stop, four days since he had given up all hope of Elves and Dwarves ever making friends, and three since he began praying to Ilúvatar for them to suddenly be struck dumb.

"We will stop soon for the night. There is a copse a little further on that will suit our purposes, and there we may rest and replenish our strength, and enjoy a _quiet night_." The last two words were very deliberately emphasised, with a dark look at each perpetrator. The Elves bowed their heads, easily accepting his reproof, but he had the feeling they would start again at first light tomorrow. Gimli didn't even have the grace to look acquiescing.

It would be a very long journey.

* * *

The Fellowship was down-hearted, he could see. It had been seven days since they set out from Imladris, and the initial adrenaline was wearing off, especially for Frodo and Sam. Now most of all did he wish for the presence of Merry and Pippin, no matter how aggravating he found that young Took, for Frodo in particular needed cheering. Sam did his best, but the antics of their young cousins were hard to replicate, and then there was the matter of simply missing them.

Frodo had been immensely relieved to find that Elladan and Elrohir would accompany them, instead of his cousins, but Gandalf had not missed the flicker in his eyes that denoted sorrow. Frodo loved those two rascals, for some strange reason, and though he was adamant that it was for the best that they would be safe, the melancholy in his heart had not been missed by anyone.

Gandalf would not have willingly dragged those two infuriating, _beautifully innocent_ young ones so far from home either, would have kept them safe and sound and far away from war and strife and all that came with these times, if not for his confounded heart. He straightened, bones creaking, and once again cursed whichever of the Valar it had been who had decided what a good idea it was for the Maiar to counter Sauron in the guises of old men with all the ailments that went with them. And whichever one it was who had somehow manipulated the situation such that _he_, of all of them, had to be the one going on this ill-fated Quest!

_A well-deserved reward, shall we say, for your long and extensive research in the Hobbit branch, _he could nearly hear Manwë saying, mirth colouring that voice and with the occasional chuckle from Nienna and Irmo thrown in for good measure.* Inwardly, he glared darkly at the images of them that his tired mind had conjured, idly wondering if the guise had begun to change the being, and he really was beginning to imagine things like some doddery old man.

On the other hand, there was always the possibility that the Valar themselves had put those thoughts in.

He nearly growled at the thought, but hastily reined it in as a couple of looks, ranging from skeptical to scared, were directed his way from the Fellowship. At least they were being relatively quiet, perhaps there was the chance for a quiet-

No one ever truly understood what happened then. Gimli insisted that Legolas tripped, and Legolas insisted that Elladan had pushed him onto Gimli thus tripping Elrohir, Elladan insisted that Gimli had tripped, pushing Legolas, who tripped Elrohir, who fell onto Gimli who had just gotten up, who then fell onto Legolas, whose flailing arms caught both twins. Elrohir's account of the event was so convoluted that none could follow, or even wanted to, seeing as a full-blown argument had just erupted. True, as seasoned, cautious warriors, all their voices were too low to attract undue attention, but certainly loud enough to interfere with the Fellowship's sleep.

Now you could _definitely _hear the teeth grinding.

It would be a very, _very_ long journey.

* * *

"Mithrandir."

Gandalf sighed, the slightest movement of hunched shoulders that might have gone unnoticed, had not the eyes trained on him been elven- or trained by elves. He knew they must continue their debate over which route to take, and decide once and for all soon, but really, all he wanted to do this night was smoke his pipe in peace.

With a sigh, he turned to the three who stood shoulder to shoulder before him, in an impressive display of solidarity and determination. They were not about to back down.

_And that is yet another reason why those two hobbits should have come along,_ he growled to himself. _At least Aragorn wouldn't have backups._ The next moment he berated himself, for this was no jesting matter. _And yet perhaps I jest for that very reason, so as not to think of the more serious implications of Elrond's decision..._

"Mithrandir!" Elladan's call was the perfect example of Elven words, pitched low and yet somehow with an inordinate amount of deliberate patience and I-am-an-Elf-why-am-I-talking-to-you superiority. Not that it was terribly effective on a Maia, but perhaps it just came naturally.

Sometimes he agreed with Gimli.

"Mithrandir..."

"Ah, yes." He looked at the three of them and sighed again. "I suppose you haven't come over for a nice chat or the pleasure of my company."

"Regrettably not."

"All right," He said finally. "Let us stop delaying. We must decide, soon. The route over Caradhras will be extremely difficult, if not impossible. The other way, on the other hand, is perilous, but a better chance, or so I see it..."

"Moria is a name of doom."

"Aye, that it is. But perhaps we will find we have no choice. Suppose we attempt to cross Caradhras, only to be blocked? We will have wasted precious days."

"Better precious days than precious lives."

"Aragorn, would you please stop speaking like an Elf!"

"To speak as such is an honour." Elrohir interjected.

"Back to the topic at hand..." Shadows loomed in Aragorn's eyes, shadows which Gandalf did not like at all. "I know you have traversed Moria before, and I will follow you, should you insist, for you are our leader. Yet my heart speaks against it."

_And so does mine_, Gandalf thought wearily. In fact, his heart, his mind, and his simple common sense all rebelled violently at the thought of going into Moria, as would those of any sane person. Unfortunately, not only was their sanity questionable, it seemed they would have no choice. He far preferred the idea of Caradhras, no matter its reputation, yet what would happen if some evil force (something whispered _Curunír _inside of him, or could it be that the Dark Lord had truly grown so powerful as to reach them here?) truly could block the passes? It would be a useless risk, for the cold was not to be underestimated.

On the other hand, neither was the darkness.

"You speak truly that Moria's name is black, Aragorn. Yet it may soon be that we will have no choice, for I would not choose the Gap of Rohan over Moria, no matter how dark that way may be. I have been in Moria, you know this, and I escaped! As did you, if I might remind you. There is hope of coming through the Mines, alive if not unscathed. There are dangers everywhere, and the place to which we go is far more so than anything we might encounter in Moria."

"It would be a close second."

"And it would be unfortunate to die in Moria without the chance to even get to the Black Land."

Gandalf gritted his teeth, wondering whether two hobbits or two elven twins were more annoying. A tie, he decided.

"We need not decide yet." He winced inwardly at his contradiction with earlier statements, but ploughed on. "We have a few more days to debate, before we put this to the Company. During which we may have as many late-night arguments as you wish. Yet I still say Moria, though I do not wish to go any nearer to that place than you. But I believe that trying the passes will be futile. It is winter, after all, and they are formidable on any normal year. This time? We know not what dark forces may contrive against us to prevent us from crossing Caradhras."

"Perhaps for the express purpose of driving us into Moria," added Aragorn darkly.

"Perhaps." Gandalf sighed. "And they will succeed, either way, so we might as well save everyone some time and go straight there."

Elladan's lips twitched. "An extremely practical option."

"Agreed. Now, perhaps we can move on from playing word games and discuss our options fairly and objectively and in an unbiased light. Caradhras would seem safer, shall we say, than Moria, and yet our path over is not guaranteed. In fact, the chances of crossing successfully are considerably lower than our chances of crossing Moria and emerging relatively intact. No one can say what stirs in the darkness of Moria, what may have awoken there. It is hazardous, it is hard, and yet it seems our best choice."

"I thought we were not being biased."

Gandalf let out a breath. "Yes. We are not. And so I say that Moria holds danger far greater and older than Caradhras, in the deep places where the Dwarves did not dig. I have no wish to face that, I cannot say that we will all pass through alive, but there is a good chance that the Ring-bearer, at least, with a few companions, will."

"That may well be, but can we afford the loss of part of the Company? Our greatest hope may be in stealth, but our greatest light is in fellowship. We cannot lose both our guides, which is very possible." Elrohir looked pointedly at Aragorn and Gandalf. "Elladan and I have not travelled to the realms of Men, or those beyond Lothlórien. The Ring-bearer, as he so aptly put it at the Council, does not know the way." **

Argue and debate and disagree and discuss...

* * *

Boromir shifted on the ground- the hard, scratchy, uncomfortable ground- for about the thousandth time. He was getting very annoyed, with himself and with the ground. He was a weathered soldier, not some weak greenhorn! He had slept in far worse conditions, in far worse places before!

He finally gave up trying to delude himself that he was merely restless. He was, but that would not keep him from sleep. No, the reason for his discontent was the group of four currently murmuring to each other at the edge of the clearing. How was he supposed to sleep knowing that as he did, others were debating their- and his- course? He might not have the wisdom of centuries as did the Elves, might not have the advantage of being Isildur's Heir, or the power of a Maia, but he was a well-respected captain of Gondor, and he certainly had the right to know what was going on, and provide some input. What could wizards and Elves and a Man raised amongst Elves know of the countries to the South? The greatness of Gondor and the valour of Rohan were lost on such beings, he thought morosely.

He had been uncomfortable with the very idea of this Quest from the start, not only with the odd assortment of people he had to travel with, but with the goal of their Company. He supposed the Wise knew best, but sometimes- most times- it seemed pure folly, to throw away such a weapon! And to bestow it upon such a one! He liked Frodo, he honestly did, and he admired the hobbit's gentle spirit and quiet courage, but it was for that very reason the good-hearted hobbit should not have to bear the power of the One! Hobbits had no need for the Ring, they lived in peace and comfort far away from Mordor.

But Gondor! What could Gondor do with such a thing! They needed aid, desperately, and though he had been too proud to admit it to Aragorn, the Sword that was Broken would have been an almighty gift. But the One! That would be greater. Aragorn could wield it, yet he would not. Elrond, Gandalf, all those High Elves and their wise talk, they were wasting the chance that could turn the tide of this War! Yet if they would not, why not he? He could see it.

He could wield it.

He turned on his side, frowning. Perhaps. And yet, he was not so foolish as to say that he knew better than they. Perhaps they were right, after all. He was but one voice, after all. It was better to bide his time, and think it over. He should not act now, so early in the Quest. He would like to learn more about his companions first, in any case.

He had spent his whole life in Gondor, amongst Men, and now was in a Fellowship of nine of which only one other than he was human. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Those Elves, now. They were strange beings, so silent and distant and inexplicably sad, although at times they could act like children, merry and jesting. He simply could not understand them, and it irked him. Yet they had never been anything but courteous and considerate, although always with this sort of aura that all but screamed superiority. His pride revolted strongly at that, but he had managed to keep his temper in check so far, and he would continue doing so.

The wizard. He was not so foreign as the rest, for he used to come to Minas Tirith, riding up with grey cloak flying to consult with his father. He and Faramir were fascinated with him, and had begged for story after story, about lands that lay far away, and perils that seemed far away, of dragons and gold and swords and adventures. But he had grown up, and he had no need for stories anymore.

The Dwarf... Well, at least he was mortal, like him. And Erebor had not been exactly peaceful for a long time, from what he knew about it, so perhaps Gimli would understand the strain, the black, sinking grief of watching your home decay, be eaten up by the ever-growing shadow day by day. Perhaps Gimli would be a comrade.

"Can't sleep?" Said Dwarf's low, rough voice interrupted his thoughts, and he stirred slightly, wondering whether to answer.

"Aye, Master Dwarf. And you?"

"I would, but I cannot when they stand there calmly deciding our fate! Perhaps they do know this land better than we, but we deserve a say, as well." The Dwarf frowned. "I only wonder that that spoiled princeling is not there."

Boromir bit back a chuckle at hearing the Elf prince so described, and lowered his voice dramatically. "Ah, that must be because he needs his beauty sleep!"

The Dwarf snorted into his hand, and looked at Boromir with a new appreciation. "Now I see that you have a sense of humour, what do _you_ think of our course? We may not be included on their discussions, but we may debate it apart. What say you?"

"Agreed. I believe they intend to cross Caradhras, but I do not think that is the best idea. It would be better by far to go by the Gap of Rohan, then make our way to my city. From there, we may perhaps strike out for Mordor with better provisions, fresh and well-rested."

"That does seem plausible, but I would propose another road: the Mines of Moria! Why not go through the Mines? It will be hard to find the way, 'tis true, but Gandalf has been there before, I gather. He can lead us through! If the snow denies us Caradhras and Saruman denies us the Gap, why not Moria?"

A shiver went through Boromir at the mention of Moria, though he had not much knowledge of the place. But what he had heard was enough to strike terror in the hearts of the boldest Men. Moria... "I would not advise taking the road through the Mines, if there was any other choice. It would be a dark, uncertain road."

"Ah, but you are wrong! Well, Moria will be dangerous, but so too will all roads in these dark times. If we go through, we may yet chance to meet Balin and his people, who would accomodate us and strengthen us, I am sure! And to look upon the great halls of Dwarrowdelf, of Khazad-dûm! It would be a sight beyond your imagination, Boromir, great though the White City must be. The ancient halls of the Dwarfs, built in times of long ago when the world was unchanged. The work of the children of Mahal does not disappear, long though the years may be as they wear on!"

The pride in the Dwarf's voice moved Boromir, for often had he spoken of Minas Tirith in such a way. "It must be great indeed, Gimli, and to see it would be an honour. I hope that some day, perhaps I will see these halls, and you may yet see the White City of Gondor. It is grand in its own way, and bears the legacy and memory of great days long ago, of the courage and honour of Men! It was built long ago, Gimli, by my distant ancestors, Elendil the Tall, founder of Gondor and Arnor, who led the last of the Faithful Númenóreans to Middle-earth, he was a great Man!"

"Indeed he must have been! But let me tell you of Durin the Deathless, first child of Mahal, who founded the greatest of all our halls: Khazad-dûm, which you will see should we go through the Mines! Khazad-dûm has been ruled by his descendants, for many long ages." Gimli sighed, sorrow appearing on his face. "But Durin's Bane awoke in the depths of the Mines, and it has been empty of Dwarfs for too long. But it may be that Balin, my kinsman, is there, somewhere, searching and rebuilding the ancient home of Dwarves..."

Thus they spoke as the night wore on, of their cities, their prides, of Gondor and Moria, of the ancient achievements of their peoples. And Boromir could not but think that perhaps Gimli would be not just a comrade, but a friend.

* * *

Their journey was largely silent, punctuated by brief words of politeness, before small talk drained away and silence fell once more.

Idhrenion did not know all of what had happened between the four halflings, the night before the Fellowship left, but he could guess, from the clenched fists and tear tracks and red eyes. He himself could well understand the pain of being left behind- the worst of any fate was to sit in safety and await news of your loved ones! These perian might be small, but he could see that great hearts beat within them, and the grief in their eyes belied the youth of their faces.

No one so young should know that grief.

The grief of loving and losing, of waiting and weeping, of knowing that all the prayers that you sent to Ilúvatar might be in vain, and all you would see of those you loved would be their corpses. If you were lucky.

He was young amongst the Eldar, not having reached his six hundredth year. But growing up in these dark times was done fast and hard and unceremoniously, and he had seen more than enough bloodshed to last him the rest of his immortal life.

That these young ones, who could not be even forty, perhaps not even thirty, and who looked for all their courage so much like children...

They should never have left their green Shire. They should never have even seen the One. The name of Sauron should never have been more than a vague fear for them. They should never have wanted to know the way to Mordor.

He shut his eyes, but darkness grew everywhere he looked, the back of his own eyelids most of all. He had not the gift- or curse, depending on how you looked at it- of foresight, but a certain elleth he held certain feelings for did, and he could not but remember her words, whispered to him in the quiet hall as they held each other in fear and pain.

_The doom of Middle-earth has been set this day._

Perhaps it has, he thought, as chills took him. Perhaps it has.

* * *

*Manwë, Nienna and Irmo were three of the Valar.

** "I will take the Ring," he said, "though I do not know the way."

_Pg. 264, The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version._


	3. Chapter 3

Hello! Here is the next chapter, the next Friday =) Again, please give me any and all feedback you may feel like giving, I would be so grateful. Also, I am very sorry but there will probably be a delay with getting the next chapter up, it is finished, but I have a very important project going right now and I don't really have the time to come on ffnet. So, thank you very much, and please enjoy *g*

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

* * *

_January 11th, T.A. 3019_

Aragorn liked snow. He really did. It was beautiful, and could be enjoyable, and sometimes meant he could come into shelter from the wilds and rest a few days in comfort before leaving again, though those times had grown fewer and fewer over the years. He had nothing against snow, personally. In fact, he had nothing at all against snow, personal or not. It was the combination of _snow_ and _Caradhras _and _far below freezing temperatures_ that did it for him.

But most of all, it was the amount of snow.

He'd had the impression that he knew all about heavy snow. There was that time he got stuck in the middle of nowhere when a blizzard struck up, and he couldn't see his own hand when he lifted it. Then the time he'd been stranded in an old dilapidated hut with only his meagre rations of nuts to last him for the duration of a snow-in, an extremely long snow-in.

But never before had he come up against a mountain itself. For it truly did seem as if Caradhras had sensed them and was utterly disgusted by this motley band attempting to scale it, and was determined to drive them off. Or kill them, but preferably the former.

He knew he'd most emphatically told Mithrandir that he did _not_ want to go anywhere within a good many leagues of Moria, and was willing to take the risk of the passes to avoid it. He stood by that word now, but all the same, he wouldn't have been overly surprised had he woken up less five fingers. Glancing around, he knew the Fellowship had it harder than him, for the most part. His brothers and Legolas, of course, were not having the slightest trouble at all and were nonchalantly strolling on top of the snow, drawing quite a few disgruntled looks from the less fortunate mortals. Gandalf would probably start to resemble a snowman soon, albeit with a rather odd stick in his hand and a pointy hat on top. Boromir was pretty much in the same state as himself- cold, stiff, annoyed, but not in any great danger for the moment. Gimli was struggling, but his strength served him well and he could probably manage.

The hobbits were, well, an interesting sight.

Sam was still doing his best to protect Frodo, bless his stout heart. The gardener was trying valiantly to shield Frodo from the flying snow, and had given his master his own cloak and was now shivering in the wind, but steadfastly refusing Frodo's offers to return it. The snow came up to his waist, and he moved rather as one might in quicksand, without the sinking. His face was a sort of blue crossed with red, from cold and exertion, and he looked about to topple over. Frodo, slightly taller, had a little of his legs visible, but that hardly seemed to help him. Although not as cold as Sam, he was panting hard and sweating- dangerous in this cold, Aragorn thought worriedly- but obviously determined not to slow anyone down, though the whole Company had subtly slowed their pace for the hobbits.

This could not go on much longer.

"Estel." Blinking through the white haze that draped itself across his vision, he spotted the three Elves currently bending down to talk to him. Another Man would probably have exploded- Boromir looked quite close to it, and it hadn't even happened to him- but Aragorn had endured this from many Elves before, and he had learnt it was rather a waste of energy to do that, seeing as it would have absolutely no effect on said Elves.

"Yes?"

"What an unfriendly reply."

"Anyone would think you were not overcome with joy to see your beloved brothers."

"And friend."

"And friend, yes."

Aragorn sighed, wondering whether it would be too disruptive to their journey if he quietly murdered one of those infuriating Elves. Or all. Yes, what a tempting thought.

"I may have to seriously reconsider that status if you do not cease annoying me this instant, Legolas. Brothers I cannot help, I suppose, though I could always disown you. And-" He broke off as a hidden, sharp rock caught his foot and he stumbled, nearly falling and wincing as he felt the stone rip his skin through his boots. Elrohir caught his arm from one side immediately, Legolas from his other, as their expressions morphed from mirth to worry.

"Estel? Are you all right?"

"I am fine." He winced again, but knew the cold would soon numb the pain- not a very good thing, now he thought about it, but for the moment, unimportant. "Others are not." He sent significant looks in the directions of the hobbits. "They are...struggling. Not to mention Gimli."

"The Dwarf is none of our concern," Elladan replied calmly. "The hobbits, however... Do you think they would consent to being carried? We got the impression that they were very proud, at least from their kinsmen back in Imladris."

"The Dwarf has a name, Elladan. And yes, they are, but they are not foolish, and I do not believe they would turn down such an offer, when it seems they will collapse before long."

He watched, relieved, as the twins made their way over to the hobbits, bending down to speak quietly with them, before smiling and offering an arm each. Frodo and Sam looked far too tired to object, and eagerly accepted the ride offered, laying their curly heads against the twins' shoulders and falling asleep almost immediately. A smile unbidden came to Aragorn's lips as he watched them, glad for the innocence that still showed on their faces, etched with exhaustion and worry as they were.

"Small hands," A voice beside him murmured, and he turned, to see Legolas looking at the hobbits as well, a soft light in his eyes. "It seems that they will indeed do the work the Wise cannot. They are a wonder indeed. So small in stature, so great in heart."

"I would that you would apply that to Gimli."

"That is different. In his case, I would rather say, small stature, small brain."

"Legolas..."

"Yes?" A more innocent smile you could not have found on Arda, and he gave it up with a sigh, deciding he was far too tired to bother with attempting to persuade stubborn Elves that Dwarves were not, in fact, a pathetic bunch.

He trudged on, but stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Legolas looked quietly at him, then sighed and shook his head.

"Foolish human. I will...attempt not to antagonise the Dwarf, though I cannot promise what will happen if he does me. Will that cheer you? I know what has driven us to Caradhras, though I may not have taken part in your nightly arguments." Aragorn shot him a look. "Debates. Fine. Estel, I do not want to brave the Mines any more than you do, but why? Why do you object so violently to that road? You have crossed Moria before. You do not have an Elven fear of being cut off from the sun and the stars. Why?"

Aragorn stifled yet another sigh. He should have known that those three would notice his despondency, for the guilt of leading them to this freezing, downright horrible place weighed heavily. And yet he could not shake the feeling that Moria would bring them yet greater tragedy. But he did not wish to share his thoughts, and he really was far too tired to engage in Elven wordplay to avoid answering at the moment.

"Estel," Legolas said very calmly. "I can outrun you perfectly well on normal ground, I can obviously do so on snow. Come here and answer me."

He acquiesced, knowing that running from an Elf was a waste of energy at the best of times, which this hardly qualified as.

"Elladan and Elrohir," He said finally, deciding to avoid the topic of Moria altogether. "I fear for them. Mithrandir did not wish for them to come, and my foresight also speaks that they should have stayed at Imladris. Perhaps it is mere imagination, but I cannot shake the feeling that by denying the two young hobbits places in the Fellowship, we have changed something in the Valar's plan that was not meant to be."

"Neither was Bilbo, and that turned out well."

"We are on a suicidal quest, Legolas. How is that well?"

"Not suicidal." The Elf drew closer, eyes burning deep into Aragorn's soul. "You are named Hope, Aragorn. And if you should give it up, so too shall Middle-earth. We are on a quest with an extremely high chance of death, yes. But suicide and sacrifice are different, and I, for one, would willingly give my life for the downfall of the Dark Lord. I do not see how the twins' presence could bring about doom for us all, no matter how ridiculous they may act at times. They will not fail Frodo."

"Not if they can help it," Aragorn murmured, smiling as he watched Elrohir tenderly reach up to stroke back Frodo's dark curls. "It may well be that hobbits could do what warriors cannot."

"True enough, but is not Lord Elrond also great in his foresight and wisdom? He has chosen to let his sons go, in stead of the hobbits, and he must have good reason for doing so."

"Perhaps." Aragorn lifted his face, feeling the icy bite of wind upon his face. "Do you too believe that this is a ploy of Sauron? Has his power truly grown such that he can reach us here?"

"I do," Legolas returned. "His shadow has been growing in Mirkwood for many a year now. I know very well how his dark power has grown to frightening heights, and it is well within possibility that he might bring down storms upon us here, far though we may be from him. But we have veered from our original topic. You still have not told me why you do not wish to travel through Moria. I must say, your brothers taught you too well. You have the evasive skills of an Elf."

"Indeed."

Silence.

"Aragorn."

"Yes?"

"You still have not answered me."

"Ah."

"Estel..."

And _that_ was when Caradhras decided to pelt them with a new ferocity, nearly burying everyone. Annoyed, Legolas yanked Aragorn out of the powdery, strangely hard snow, wondering if even the mountain was contriving against him finally getting his friend to answer.

The next moment, Aragorn was gone, helping Gimli out of the snow at the other end of the path.

Yes, his brothers had definitely taught him _far_ too well.

* * *

This really was unnatural, hobbits being so high and all! It wasn't his place to say anything, of course, what could he say, when all those Wise and Great Big People had said it was to be so? He shivered again, feeling the bite of the snow keenly. Elladan turned his head to murmur something to his twin- ordinarily, he would have listened, but somehow he was so sleepy, and just wanted to lay his head on the Elf's shoulder and sleep, although he really shouldn't do that, wasn't proper, after Mr. Elladan had been so kind as to offer to carry him too! It was only right that Mr. Frodo should be helped along, of course, he being a gentlehobbit and all, but him! Just a lowly gardener, being carried by a great Elf Warrior! He blushed again at the thought, but he'd been so sleepy and Mr. Frodo had said it was all right, so it must be...

"Sam!" He jerked awake. Elladan's worried grey eyes searched his. "I am sorry, Master Samwise, but I must ask you to keep awake. Sleeping in this cold can be dangerous. We will stop soon and somehow build a fire of some sort, so that you can rest, but for now, you must stay awake!"

He nodded hastily, not wishing for anyone to waste time over him, but it really was hard. His eyelids seemed to have a mind of their own, closing involuntarily every few seconds. He stared at the brown of Elladan's garment with all his might, to no avail. Perhaps for just a few moments...

"Samwise!" His eyes flew open, and he blushed bright red.

"I'm that sorry, Mr. Elladan, didn't mean to and all! How is Mr. Frodo?" He added anxiously, glancing to his master, to whom Elrohir was talking urgently. He turned wide eyes on Elladan. "Sir?"

The Elf pursed his lips, hurrying to his twin's side. "Elrohir? The _perian? _How is Frodo?"

"He cannot stay awake." Elrohir's voice was taut as a drawn bow, quivering with held-back fear. "Elladan, we must stop. The other mortals will soon sleep, too. Is Estel all right?"

"He should be fine, for now." Elladan cast a quick glance at his foster brother, who looked cold and tired, but not overly so. "But for the hobbits we must. Mithrandir cannot truly think that we can go on this day, or he truly has taken leave of his senses!"

It appeared that Boromir thought so too, for the Gondorian called out to their leader, his tone revealing contained anger. "Gandalf, we must stop. This is madness! We will not make much progress in any case, and for the little ones if for nothing else, we need a fire!"

The Fellowship stopped, the wind burning their cheeks as they looked around.

"We cannot go further tonight," said Boromir. "Let those call it the wind who will; there are fell voices in the air; and these stones are aimed at us."

"I do call it the wind, but that does not make what you say untrue. There are many evil and unfriendly things in the world that have little love for those who go on two legs and yet are not in league with Sauron, but have purposes of their own. Some have been in this world longer than he."

"Caradhras was called the Cruel, and had an ill name, long years ago, when rumour of Sauron had not been heard in these lands."

"It matters little who is the enemy, if we cannot beat off his attack," said Gandalf. "Either we stop where we are, or go back. It is no good going on. Only a little higher, if I remember rightly, this path leaves the cliff and runs into a wide shallow trough at the bottom of a long hard slope. We should have no shelter there from snow, or stones – or anything else."

"And it is no good going back while the storm holds," said Aragorn. "We have passed no place on the way up that offered more shelter than this cliff wall we are under now."*

"Then we will make do here. _Muindor_, I need you. Frodo is sleeping, and I cannot wake him." **

Aragorn hurried to Frodo's side, reaching him just as Sam did, tumbling gracelessly through the snow in his eagerness to get to his Master's side. Frodo lay still and quiet, murmuring softly in his sleep, face pale under an unnatural flush.

"Frodo!" But he did not wake.

"Here," Gandalf called, hurrying over while simultaneously rummaging through his pack. "Give him this- and we might as well all take some. It will do us good. It is the cordial of Imladris, and will renew us all."

"_Miruvor!_" Elladan glared darkly at Gandalf. "Mithrandir, you could have given us some earlier."

"Ah, but was it not better to save it for a time of greater need? We will need some in the days ahead, and who knows how long we will take to make the crossing? It is better,_ Elrondion_, that we do not use it needlessly!" ***

"Fine," Elladan muttered, as he extracted a blanket from his pack, after throwing the bottle to his brother. "I shall not waste my breath arguing with a wizard who refuses to admit when he is wrong. Do not look at me like that, Legolas, Elrohir caught it."

"What if he had not?" Legolas exclaimed.

"Of course I would have!" Elrohir interjected, somehow managing to sound outraged and amused at the same time, while gently tipping a few drops of the cordial into Frodo_'_s slack mouth.

"If I may interrupt this pointless conversation, I might remind you that the rest of the Fellowship is still waiting for you to drink and pass the bottle."

Accompanied by a few glares, the cordial was passed around the Company, each feeling the magic of renewal as warmth seemed to return after abandoning them for far too long. Each felt the stirring in their heart, a fresh, pulsing hope sustaining them as they prepared to move once more. The snow whirled on.

On and on and on. Frodo thought it might be quite a surprise, the day they finally saw something that wasn't white. It would be an interesting sight, he mused as he trudged on, for it was too much to ask, surely, from the Elves to bear them some more. They had been kind to carry them thus far; he should make his way onwards on his own. Sam, though, should really get some help, he'd already given up his cloak for him!

Frodo drew both cloaks in closer, shivering despite the extra covering, and wondering how desperate he would get before he asked if he could wear his blanket as well. The wind blew his curls back and forth and in every direction, as snow struck him all over, and this mountain was the most contrary place he'd ever been in. He'd have sworn he heard someone laughing as the last great onslaught had been poured forth, as if revelling in their dismay. Could it be that Boromir was right? Sauron truly could bring the mountain down on them...

Unconsciously, one hand crept to his throat and fastened itself tightly around the gold band that hung there. It swung, gently as if it was quite above the wind, and painted a backdrop of the Shire at its most beautiful, the flowers that bloomed in the meadows, and the birdsong, and the laughter of hobbits as they went about their work, and it could all be, it could all be this way forever, if he took it off, put it on-

No...

The hand clutched the Ring tighter than ever, resisting it even as it pulled it closer.

"Mr. Frodo?" He jerked slightly as he came down to earth, looking into Sam's sensible brown eyes. _Oh yes, and Sam could live out his years happily, in a nice hobbit-hole with Rosie-lass and some small hobbit-children, perhaps. He'd make a wonderful father, you know._

_"_I'm fine, Sam."

Sam eyed him suspiciously. "Are you now, sir? 'Tisn't my place to question, of course, but seems to me you're rather down, so to speak. My head isn't the best around, but my heart says so, and I do well by it. That's to say, I wouldn't say I was a great hero-hearted hobbit, you understand, sir, not like Mr. Bilbo, he's one to see! But I'm sorry, master, I oughtn't to ramble so, when it's clear as my nose you're missing those young rascals!"

"Sam, you're hardly two years older than Merry! And not more than ten older than Pip!"

"No matter," Sam returned firmly. "They're your young cousins, and so they're young, to me, at least. But that isn't important. I'm that sorry I can't be more of them to you, Mr. Frodo, although it wouldn't befit me at all to go round pranking people like that young Mr. Pippin does, but isn't there anything I could do?" And Sam looked at him anxiously, such love and concern in his face that Frodo immediately felt guilty for brooding.

"Don't you ever wish you were someone else, Samwise Gamgee, or I'd lose my best friend, in the Shire or anywhere else. Don't you worry about Merry and Pip, I do miss them, though I can't for the life of me understand why, but it's better this way. They'll be safe and sound back in the Shire, and I only wish you were too!"

"Me? Oh, no, Mr. Frodo, I couldn't bear to be back there, when you were out here, going through all these awful things, and bearing that horrible Ring, and all without your Sam! Not to say that you wouldn't be perfectly capable of meeting all those things on your own, sir, not that at all!" For Sam still firmly believed that Frodo was the best and most wonderful hobbit in the history of Arda, and could have done anything. "Except that I would've wanted to be with you, not to presume upon your company, of course, sir, but I'm your servant, and it would be proper to have help around, not that you need it, but... Oh dear, I've gone and muddled myself up, and bored you!"

Frodo laughed; his hand relaxed around the Ring.

"Oh Sam, what would I do without you?" He sobered, thinking of all that was to come, and was suddenly seized by a great desire to send Sam away, back to the Shire, and wished terribly hard that this good, brave, loyal servant did not have to risk his life for his master, who wasn't half as good as him.

"Mr. Frodo?"

"I'm fine, Sam, don't worry! Now, I know that just as I'm missing those two, you must be pining for a certain golden-haired lassie back in the Shire. I'm surprised you haven't spoken of her yet!" He watched in laughing delight as Sam's face reddened noticeably.

"I wouldn't say that, Mr. Frodo! Why, I haven't been thinking of her overly much, that is, I have, but just as I would miss all the hobbits back at home, you know, not especially..." Sam suddenly saw the spark in Frodo's eyes, the gleam of mischief that had been missing so long, gone with the young hobbits who usually awoke it. "Well, maybe I did a little, but she is awfully pretty, though I wouldn't be putting myself forward by saying anything, is all..."

"I knew you'd admit it!" Frodo crowed, the sudden joy in his voice payment enough for Sam's embarrassment, and they walked on, laughter echoing in the sharp, chilled air.

As Frodo's hand hung loosely by his side, the red imprint of the Ring slowly faded, for the moment.

* * *

*Adapted from Pg 282, The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.

**_muindor_ means 'brother' in Elvish. I have either 1. taken the fanon that Elladan and Elrohir treated Aragorn as a brother, or 2. taken it as near canon: I am pretty sure it says somewhere in one fo the appendixes that Elrond took young Estel in and treated him as family, although I honestly can't remember where... Either way, bear with me!

***_Elrondion_- Elrond's son. _Ion_ means son.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello again! Okay, the first major plot change (other than the Hobbits being left behind, of course) is in this chapter. Please let me know what you thought, whether it was plausible or just too unrealistic. I will include an explanation of just why the Hobbit's absence might cause this to happen at the end of this chapter, if you are interested.

Thank you for reading!

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

* * *

_January 13th, T.A. 3019_

"Mithrandir..."

"I am concentrating."

"Yes, but..."

"Go away."

"Wizards should be polite."

"True. Except when talking to obnoxious, annoying Elves. So please remove the temptation and leave me."

"You have been concentrating for hours-"

"Exactly four hours and twenty-three minutes-"

"And this it the third time we've repeated this conversation-"

"And if you cannot guess the word soon, the wargs will come back-"

"So you need to quicken your pace." They concluded together, identical smiles on identical smug faces.

Gandalf did his best to concentrate on his task, and _not_ on how much he would like to put his hands around the twins' necks and squeeze, slowly, and hard, until those infuriating tongues were stilled. Alternatively, he could always ask Aragorn to hold them still while he skewered them with a sword. He'd heard their foster brother muttering death threats to them plenty of times, how would he feel about carrying them out? Perhaps they could collaborate with Gimli, who surely would be delighted to be of...

Concentrate.

"Mithrandir."

"The next time you say that I shall-" He broke off, realising that although the voice was soft and calm, as was the Elvish way, it was distinctly _not_ Elvish. He hesitated, then sighed and turned. Aragorn looked at him with a strange, hidden sorrow that he shied from, and he decided instantly to concentrate on the door. He supposed that after ages of walking this Middle-earth, it was rather foolish to run away from a Man with a quiet sadness and a deeply dreadful look. But still, there were things you never got used to, he mused.

"Do you have any useful contributions to make? If not, I would advise you to get over there with those Elflings you call brothers and try your best not to kill them. Yet." Aragorn's lips twitched despite himself, and Gandalf smiled in triumph. Until his next effort failed, of course. Blasted door.

He sighed and turned, preparing himself for the inevitable talk that he had promised Aragorn- and, for that matter, the twins. Where were they, now? It was decidedly unlike them not to stick their noses into any and every business, whether wanted or not, especially when they actually had the right to. "Where are those confounded Elven Lords? When you don't want them they pop up everywhere, and when you actually want them, they disappear..." His voice trailed off into a muttering, grumbling rant on the general inconsistency and annoying tendencies of Elven twins.

"Mithrandir." Aragorn's voice was soft and almost wistful, and Gandalf looked up immediately. He couldn't restrain a smile at the sight some feet away from them, for the dignified Lords of Rivendell were playing like little children with the Hobbits, and had actually drawn out a hearty laugh from Frodo when Sam tripped over a rock and the twins began arguing whose fault it was. A broad smile worked its way across Gandalf's irascible face.

"It seems that annoying Elves do indeed have a use, albeit an obscure one."

"As obscure as your hobbies."

"My hobbies are merely unique."

"Same thing."

"Ah." They sat in silence for a while, door forgotten, as each contemplated his own thoughts, hopes and, most prominently, fears. Why were there so many?

"Aragorn." Gandalf placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I am sorry that we must take this dark road. I know that the memories you bear of this place are far from fair, but then so are so many others. It is sad, but true. While I can offer no consolation for the trial to come, I may offer the comfort of a friend. Will you accept it?"

The Man remained still and silent, like to a statue as he sat in the gloom wordlessly. Finally, he raised his head and spoke, but his words were dark as the Mines they were to enter, and they did nothing good at all for Gandalf's state of mind.

"It is not my memories that plague me so, fearful as they are. Nay, Mithrandir, I fear not the past but the future- yours, to be more specific. Moria holds danger for us all, but for you it holds only death. I know there can be no other way, and I would not ask it of you to turn aside now. If you fall, so be it. I will grieve," And his voice dropped into a pain-stricken whisper. "But I will lead the Company on. It is the only way."

The only way. Such finality in word and tone! Yet Gandalf's own heart forebode that Aragorn was right. He would not see the light of day again, once he entered those gates.

"I am glad, my friend." He replied finally, voice steady. This was the duty of the Fellowship, and it would not be hindered by the fears of an old wizard and the love of an old friend, no matter how dear that friend might be. "I am glad, for I know that if I should fall, the Company will be led on by capable hands, onwards toward the Dark Land by one who has seen its borders."

"Aye. But that is not going to happen if those doors do not open, Mithrandir. Might I suggest that you move on?" A mirthful smile lit Aragorn's face, and Gandalf smiled in relief, though he could still see so clearly the shadow that rested over the Man.

Still, it was good to laugh.

* * *

_Moria_.

The very word brought shivers of unbearably wonderful anticipation to his swiftly-beating heart, and it speeded along as if all the sustenance it needed now was the thought of seeing the halls of his forefathers, the greatness of ancient mansions in the deep places where the Dwarves once delved.

_Dark is the water of Kheled-zaram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nala, and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dum in Elder Days before the fall of the mighty kings beneath the stone. *_

And perhaps he would see once again Balin, son of Fundin, who might be in there somewhere, a son of ancient kings come back to claim his kingdom. One day, the Shadow would recede, and then the Dwarves would rise again, great as they had been, and take back what was theirs, Khazad-dûm!

Most majestic of all Dwarven strongholds. Dwarrowdelf...

He glanced about, unable to stop the thrill of triumph at the sight of the Elf- he still steadily refused to address him as Legolas- standing still by a rock, one hand braced against it, staring out into the night as if drinking the moonlight. Perhaps he was, thought Gimli with a shudder. Strange, these Elves.

The welcome sound of laughter reached him, and he turned, a grin stretching across his lips as he spotted Frodo, laughing and smiling with true mirth as he watched Sam play with those other two Elves.

Perhaps they were not so bad, Gimli reflected, albeit doubtfully. They had joined with the Elf in taunting him, of course, and had insulted his father, something he would never forget, but they were the sons of Lord Elrond, who had always treated the Dwarves with courtesy and respect. And they were making the Hobbits laugh, which, as far as Gimli was concerned, was wonderful, no matter who did it.

Those hobbits were altogether too gloomy, he reflected as he watched them. They had good reason, of course, but-

The small splash seemed to echo accusingly in the silence. Slowly, one by one, the Fellowship turned to look at Boromir, who stood, one hand still outstretched, a tight frown on his brow. The ripples from the stone he had thrown did not die, if anything, they seemed to grow ominously larger. Something dark and dangerous seemed to settle on the Company, a tight hand of doom that gripped them ever harder as they waited, though for what they could not have said.

Gimli swallowed, years of experience on the battlefield loudly telling him that it was _not _a good idea to draw attention to yourself in dark places. Not at all.

_Out of the water a long sinuous tentacle had crawled. it was pale-green and luminous and wet. Its fingered end had hold of Frodo's foot, and it was dragging him into the water. Sam on his knees was now slashing at it with a knife._

_The arm let go of Frodo, and Sam pulled him away, crying out for help. Twenty other arms came rippling out. The dark water boiled, and there was a hideous stench.**_

Panic took hold as Frodo's raw scream sliced their eardrums. Arms and legs flailing desperately, the Ring-bearer was borne into the air by a wildly flying tentacle, the creature's arm bringing him in random motions through the air, while Sam, yelling just as loudly as Frodo, continued hacking with all his might at the parts of the monster that he could reach. It was not particularly effective, for it merely seemed to see him as a small hindrance, and suddenly one great arm came sweeping up to the gardener, slamming him against a wall. He slid to the ground and did not rise.

The rest of the Fellowship seemed as beings let free from a spell, and they rushed forward, battlecries on their lips as they assaulted the creature. Legolas' bow was singing, and his arrows struck the madly flailing tentacles time and time again, although he could not shoot the arm holding Frodo without endangering the hobbit himself. Elladan, Elrohir and Aragorn drew bows as well, and soon arrows were everywhere, their whistling noises all the warning the others had to duck before skewered by the weapon of their own comrade. Boromir and Gimli drew their respective weapons and began hacking mercilessly at the churning waters, wherever they saw a dark shadow moving beneath it.

Gandalf ran for Sam, and dragged the unmoving hobbit as far from the waterside as possible, desperately searching for the pulse of life that- _thank __Ilúvatar_- still pounded. But he would not wake.

"Sam, Sam!" The little hobbit lay still, his face grey beneath the grime on it, marred by the marks of the stone he had struck. The monster was making a ridiculous amount of noise, but he did not move, so still that Gandalf swallowed worriedly.

"Gandalf! The gates!" Boromir's cry rang above the sickening sound of blade on flesh and the whistle of arrows as they hurtled towards their enemy. "The password! They must open! Now!"

Gandalf stood very still, as if for one moment, unsure. He did not look at anyone, not even when Sam stirred at his feet and groaned, but stared at the door with such intensity, it seemed they must fly apart by the very power of his gaze. As if enraged by this suggestion, the monster moved even more violently, swinging Frodo halfway across the lake, and striking terrifyingly powerful blows on the others.

Mithrandir was still. His brain whirred, and everything fell into place. Was it too late? He cried the word that the Elves give to one most dear to them, the word that means something, someone dearer than brother, more precious than self. "_Mellon_," He called out into the chaos of battle, and the gates swung open.

A great furious shriek rose from the creature, as the Fellowship renewed its efforts to get Frodo down. Finally, one of Legolas' arrows found its mark, though he paid for his aim, for a tentacle came down upon him and struck him to the ground. But Frodo was dropped from the height he was at, and Aragorn sprang forward to catch him, though with a stiffness that warned of injury. As the light hobbit landed in his arms, his knees buckled and he fell to the ground, earning himself a worried look from Elladan, as the Fellowship rushed forward, towards the door.

The monster was evidently in a rage at having his prey so snatched from him, and the very gates shook as he slammed himself relentlessly against the walls. Stone began to crumble, dust showering the Company as the ceiling began to crack under the strain and strength of the monster. They must hurry.

Coils of terrible strength seized the doors as the Company struggled to reach them, and swung them shut again, with a dark thud as yet more stone fell from the ceiling. Gimli stumbled back, horrified and alarmed, as the gates shut in his face, literally. So literally that his beard was caught between them, and he freed himself with an almighty tug.

He was trapped outside Moria.

The creature's bellowing intensified. Obviously, he was not the one it wanted. But suddenly an arrow flew past Gimli, and struck the creature's eye. Slowly, reluctantly, it sank back into the dark waters, the ripples slowly fading. It had gone back to the depths from whence it came.

He swung around, to see Elladan- or it might have been Elrohir- in an archer's stance with bow in hand. Nodding his gruff thanks, Gimli jogged over. He stumbled to a surprised halt as his foot kicked flesh, and he knelt, turning the body of the Elf over with a gentleness that surprised himself. Legolas was still, face hauntingly pale in the gloom, though his dark hair had disguised him before. The Elf dropped to the ground beside him, face white, and placed a hand on Legolas' neck, feeling for a pulse.

He glanced up, caught a glimpse of the Elf's face through a curtain of dark hair and the dimness of the cave, and drew back instinctively. In that fair face was held the ancient pain of one well used to loss, and the desperate need of one sundered from those he loved- _one_ in particular that he loved, Gimli realised in sudden epiphany.

His twin.

He nodded curtly at Gimli, and glanced around. "Is anyone else out here?"

"Aye, my good Elf." Gandalf strode forward. "And I am not alone: I bear a precious burden. Sam is here, but I fear he is gravely wounded."

Gimli and Elladan- Elrohir- the Elf sprang forward as one, reaching Gandalf's side swiftly. The Elf reached for Sam, placing a hand on his forehead and closing his eyes. Something flared in Gimli's consciousness, and he began to wonder if Elven healing arts were not as useless as he'd assumed. Sam certainly appeared to rest easier, shifting and sighing, then lying still, a peaceful look on his face. A faint misgiving led Gimli to lay his hand hurriedly at Sam's wrist, but the hobbit's pulse was strong.

"It seems we are cut off from our companions." Gandalf's voice sounded so calm and matter-of-fact that Gimli nearly disregarded the meaning of his words, before hurriedly realising that he was right and they were in trouble. "Well, well, things are as things must. We must get out of here, if we wish to tend these two properly. We shall need light, certainly."

"Mithrandir, what of those inside?" The Elf's voice was sharp, but Gimli found himself (to his surprise) agreeing. Although perhaps for different reasons- the Elf looked quite ready to tear apart the very Doors of Moria to get to his brother. "How can we know of their fate, or if they yet live? Should we not seek a path inside?"

"Nay, _Elrondion,_ I know two of those you hold most dear are there, but we must tend them."

"Aye, it would be well to do so. But we know not of their fate, and the Ring-bearer is amongst them. Surely our first duty is to him, much as our wounded companions need us! At the very least, we must stay awhile, lest there be someone else out here, unconscious and unable to call to us." Gimli urged.

"It tears me to leave now, but surely you see that it is our best course. We have no hope of finding another way inside- surely you, of all people, Gimli, know how strongly the Dwarves fortified their walls! We owe our protection to Frodo, but he is out of reach now. Our next duty is to our comrades, who need us now more than they. Let us not debate this. We must leave, now, or the creature may return."

Gimli and the Elf acceded, albeit reluctantly, for a strong sense of loyalty beat at them and compelled them to turn their heads, to look again at the debris that once was the Door of Moria, Gimli with a certain look of melancholy, the Elf with an indescribable look of sorrow and memory and love. It seemed to Gimli that the chance to see the ancient city of his kindred has slipped from his very hands, and he could not but be disappointed. Still, he admonished himself, Legolas and Sam were what mattered now. All other things were of secondary importance- except perhaps the others.

Were they together? He wondered, hoping with all his heart that they were. He shuddered at the thought of Frodo wandering the dark paths of Moria alone, possibly injured, with every fell creature in there ready and waiting to attack...

It will do no one no good to brood on that now, he thought firmly. You must trust to the strength of the other warriors, who will surely protect him. Ah, but what if they cannot? He frowned anxiously one again. An Elf couldn't be much good in there, and Boromir certainly hadn't seemed at ease with the thought of the Mines. Aragorn perhaps might keep a clear head, although he had been against Moria, but then again he had looked to be injured. Suppose they met with some unfriendly creatures? Two Men, one injured, and one Elf was not enough against a great host of dark servants. And should they meet Balin, how would he know that they were friend, not foe?

"Master Gimli!" He startled, looking up to see the face of the unidentifiable Elf staring at him. He blinked, a split-second later registering that the Elf had just called him by his name. It was something of a mutual agreement between them, that they would not address each other by name, merely by 'Master Dwarf' or 'Master Elf'. In fact, it had led to quite a bit of confusion when Gimli shouted, 'Master Elf!' and three Elves sprang up.

"Dwarf?" Ah, back to 'Dwarf'. But such an act was a symbol of- what? Respect? An offer of a truce? Well, an Elf can't be said to beat a Dwarf for courtesy, he thought, and made to reply, before realising that he didn't actually know which Elf he was talking to, so calling him by his name was pretty much impossible.

"Hum, ah, Master Elf, might I ask..."

"Yes?" The Elf's face held a slightly quizzical look.

"Well, I mean, it's rather hard... I would call you... Which Elf are you?"

There was a moment of silence, and Gimli wondered if he'd somehow offended the Elf. Then he gave a loud snort and clear, ringing laughter echoed in the air. Flushing slightly, Gimli exclaimed hotly that it wasn't that funny, only to be rewarded with renewed chuckling- and Gandalf's deep laughter too.

He growled and shook his head. "Well, I am glad to be of entertainment for you, but would you be so kind as to answer my question?"

"Of course." The Elf straightened his face painstakingly. "I am Elrohir, Master Gimli. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

It was Gimli's turn to snort, but he grasped the Elf's forearm, albeit grudgingly. "Gimli of the Lonely Mountain."

A small smile worked its way across Gandalf's weathered face, though it went unnoticed by Elf and Dwarf.

"If I might interrupt your introductions, we must move on."

Thus they went on, retracing their path and leaving the Doors of Moria farther behind with every step.

* * *

*Pg 347, The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.

**Pgs 300-301, The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.

Okay, if you're very annoyed right now at this blatant disregard of canon, I am very sorry. But this is AU, so... =/

This is the passage that inspired me with this idea:

"I was wrong after all," said Gandalf, "and Gimli too. Merry, of all people, was on the right track. The opening word was inscribed on the archway all the time! The translation should have been:_ Say 'Friend' and enter._ I had only to speak the Elvish word for _friend_ and the doors opened. Quite simple. Too simple for a learned lore-master in these suspicious days. Those were happier times. Now let us go!"

_-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 300. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version._

So, I took the liberty of thinking, if Merry wasn't there, might it have taken Gandalf a little longer to solve the riddle, allowing the monster more time to attack? And what consequences might come of that... What will happen seeing as Gandalf, not being in Moria, cannot fall? The Balrog? Gandalf the White, or the Grey? All these (unanswered) questions!

Please review! Any feedback, about plot, grammar, characterisation, anything, I would be grateful.

Also, just a question, since I am not planning to use this at all: I have seen many fics about the aftermath of Celebrían's capture, most of them about the twins going on some mad bloodlusting hunt. I know that the capture is canon, but the twin's reaction, is that something made up by fans and used by lots of people, or did Tolkien actually write something to that effect? If anyone could clarify, it would be great. Thanks so much =)

And another question: How do you feel about killing a one of the Fellowship rather soon? (In the Mines, in fact) Because, well, face it, four against a 'flame of Udûn' aren't very good odds, and all of them making it out alive is questionable. After all, a Maia managed to get them out only by falling himself. So, please leave your thoughts!


	5. Chapter 5

Hello again! :) Here is the next chapter. I only hope I've done the characters justice and that you will enjoy =) Thank you so much, reviewers!

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

* * *

_January 13th, T.A. 3019_

Noise.

It seemed that everything was either crashing or roaring or bellowing or screaming with a disturbingly Hobbitlike voice, competing with each other to see just who could be the loudest, screechiest and altogether most annoying.

And darkness.

That was worse. It was so sudden, one moment leaping through the doorway, the next the door collapsing behind him as he plunged to the ground and felt the roughness of gravel kiss his cheek. He ought to have taken control, looked at his situation and worked out what to do, but he couldn't sense his twin, couldn't sense Elrohir and immediately went into panic. This meant his brother was either outside, separated from him by very, very thick walls, or unconscious, or-

With Elven agility he sprang up immediately, only to stumble when dizziness assaulted him. He supposed it wasn't that surprising, considering that he'd just been flung against the floor by a door ripped to shreds by an irate monster who clearly was not all all happy that its prey had gotten-

_Oh._

He lurched up again, looking wildly around, as if that would help, seeing as everything was black. His eyes could make out shadows, but not much more. Where was Frodo? He remembered vividly- _too_ vividly, how the monster had swung the Ring-bearer around like some rag doll, which could _not_ have done anything good for him. And to fall from such a height, such a little one, even if he had been caught before he hit the ground, the impact must be tremendous! And come to that, where was his younger brother? He'd looked to be injured, had he even made it in? If he hadn't, then Frodo hadn't either, which would be an absolute disaster. And where, oh Valar, where was Elrohir?

He drew a deep breath and calmed himself almost forcibly. Softly, he called out into the gloom, doing his best to scrutinise the shadows he could make out. "Estel?"

There was silence, then a quick intake of breath and a "Frodo?" in his brother's voice, low and taut with worry.

"Estel, where are you?" Elladan took a tentative step forward, focussing his eyes with all his might. He could just see two figures in the gloom, one small one- Frodo?- lying motionless while the other-_Estel_- knelt at his side. "Estel? Frodo?"

"Elr'hir?" The Man's voice was weak, but steady. Elladan felt a wave of concern. It had been long since Estel had managed to mix the two up, even in (to a mortal) complete darkness. He reached out, hoping it was the right person, and placed a gentle hand on who he assumed was his brother's shoulder.

"Elladan. Are you injured?"

"No." Elladan snorted. "_Muindor_, Frodo. He will not wake, and his hand-" Aragorn gently lifted the Ring-bearer's hand closer to the Elf's eyes.

His fist was tightly clenched around the Ring.

Elladan was silent, the implications of this whirling in his head. He knew it was too much to expect Frodo- _little, innocent, gentle Frodo_- to resist touching the Ring, but even in his sleep his grip looked so desperately hungry it scared him. Could the monster have brought this on, or had he been grabbing it already? Had he held on to it as a sort of protection?

_What did this mean?_

It was inevitable for Frodo to start needing the Ring, to start fawning at it with the passion of one seduced by the darkest power Middle-earth had to offer, but... so soon? Or was it soon? For a Hobbit? A Man or an Elf would not have even held out this long without claiming the Ring, but Halflings...

He must focus.

He placed a gentle hand on Frodo's forehead, searching for his consciousness, a spark of light in the depths to which the Ring had ravaged Frodo's quiet spirit. "Frodo, _pen-neth, lasto beth nîn. Cuiva."_

"Sam?"

And _that_ was when they realised that the little gardener was not there. Obvious, really, when you looked at it in hindsight. If Sam had been there, even if he'd broken all the bones in his small body, he'd have been dragging himself painstakingly to Frodo's side, inch by inch. Elladan winced as his memory replayed the sight of little Sam being slammed against the wall so brutally. Had he even survived that? He'd been caught up in battle after that and hadn't had the chance to glimpse the gardener again. _Ilúvatar, please preserve him._

"Shh, Frodo. Sam is fine. Where do you hurt?" Elladan gave his brother a strange look at the strange wording, but decided hurriedly to ignore it, at least for now, as Frodo cried out.

"Aragorn?" A new voice entered the soundscape, just to make things even more complicated than they already were. Elladan placed the owner in a moment, and seeing as his brother was otherwise occupied right now, answered. "Boromir! We are here. Where are you?" It was rather an absurd question, he realised a little late, as Estel let out a little snort.

"Here," was Boromir's equally ridiculous answer, and Elladan heard a scrabbling. Loping cautiously over, he reached out and found Boromir's arm. "Ah, there!"

"Is the little one hurt?" Boromir's voice was concerned, and Elladan found he could almost forgive the Man his suspicion of his little brother, although protective instincts trained over 3,000 years tended to be a little hard to override. But Boromir, to his credit, did honestly care for Frodo and Sam.

"Yes, but the extent we are not sure, as is Estel. How fare you?"

"I am unscathed," Boromir replied, sounding all right, though you could never tell. Never before had Elladan wished for a light so much! If Mithrandir were here he could start a light, but-

Now he got to thinking about it, were any other Fellowship members in here?

He winced at the thought of there being someone lying unconscious, somewhere. It would, he was sure, not be a pleasurable experience at all to wake up, alone, in the dark, and hurt. But how were they to make certain? For feeling over the whole cave was hardly practical.

"Frodo's wrist is sprained, badly, by the feel. He is in shock, I think. Elladan, can you sing for him?"

A surprised grunt was heard from Boromir's general direction- clearly, he had never considered music, beautiful as it was, as a healing technique.

But when the Elf's clear voice lifted, in the darkness of the Mines, Boromir, too, felt the beauty of Elven music, and had there been light to see, perhaps the cheeks of Denethor's prodigal son might have been wet.

* * *

The Elf grunted. The noise really couldn't be described in any other way, Gimli thought gleefully. He grunted again, and shifted. It seemed he was finally waking up, which was good, he supposed, although he had rather enjoyed the peace and quiet. The other Elf- _Elrohir_, he was determined to remember and not have to humiliate himself again- was often of scouting ahead, or simply brooding, in Gimli's opinion. But he had his hands full with looking after the Elf and the Hobbit, since Gandalf insisted on being mysterious and wizardly and spending a great deal of time staring into the distance doing absolutely nothing.

It was getting annoying, but he didn't have much time to think on it. The Elf stirred again, and he leaned forward.

"Elf?" He coughed into his beard, wondering if he should extend the courtesy of calling him by his name to this Elf. He and Elrohir had somehow managed to form a relationship that, with a little imagination, might be called fellowship, or at the very least, mutual tolerance, but this Elf... Well, he was Thranduil's son. Still... He took a deep breath.

"Legolas?"

The Elf's reaction was rather interesting. He jerked, let out a half-unconscious moan, blinked blankly, and settled into staring at Gimli in an extremely disconcerting way.

"Elf?" He reverted, deciding it was far simpler to insult the Elf than try to be polite to him, if this was what it resulted in.

"What did you call me?" The Elf's voice was startlingly strong, considering he'd been unconscious a few minutes ago.

"By your name, Master Elf, which is only polite. The Dwarves are in possession of their manners, even if the Elves are lacking."

It was, he reflected, rather impressive, how furious an Elf could manage to look while incapacitated, prone, and wrapped in blankets and bandages.

"Let never it be said that Dwarves better Elves in courtesy, for it would be a lie, _Gimli."_

"_Legolas_, it was I who extended this greeting, not you, though it was less than well-deserved. I beg of you not to forget or deny that, for such an act would leave me with an understandably low opinion of Elves. I decidedly-"

"_Legolas!"_ Gimli and Legolas jumped apart as if they were little children caught at doing something naughty, Elrohir noted with amusement, as he moved forward to gently touch his friend's cheek, reassuring himself that the younger Elf was indeed alive, conscious, and by the looks of things, seething.

"Elrohir." Legolas' voice held all the dangerous patience of an Elf prince well used to negotiation and, occasionally, heated argument. Oh, Gimli will have a hard time, Elrohir thought with a little amused smile. There was no other as well versed as Mirkwood's prince in the hidden barbs of wordplay. "What has happened? Why are we here?"

Legolas, Elrohir thought, was making an impressive effort to be civil. "Do you remember the creature?"

Legolas nodded.

"And how it struck down the doors?"

"Struck down is an understatement," A new voice entered the conversation. "It crumbled them to pieces. How do you feel, young one?" Elrohir's lips twitched at the idea of anyone calling an Elf young, although he supposed that if anyone could do it it was Mithrandir.

"I was perfectly fine," Legolas replied tightly. "Until I realised exactly who I was beside." Gimli growled, low in his throat.

"Now, now, pray do not go starting a big fight just now. We must move on, now it seems you are able to walk, not to say argue. We will attempt to scale Caradhras once more."

There was silence.

"Mithrandir..."

"Gandalf, this-"

"You are crazy!" This blunt statement came from Gimli, none too surprisingly. Gandalf's lips quirked a little.

"I do not happen to have lost my mind quite yet, although if I have to endure days in such company, I may well do so. No, I believe that because we do not bring the Ring-bearer with us this time, Caradhras may let us pass."

"You are still crazy." Gimli returned with conviction, but Legolas had been distracted. "The Ring-bearer? Where is Frodo?" He looked anxiously at Elrohir. "Elladan and Estel?"

"They are not here." Elrohir kept his voice carefully emotionless. "They, along with the Ring-bearer and Boromir, made it inside."

"Made it in? That cannot go well for them. They will have no guide!"

"Aragorn has travelled through Moria before." Gandalf interjected. "In any case, worrying about them will do us no good now. We must make for the other side of the mountains, where we will seek shelter at the Woods." Gimli tensed.

Elrohir, on the contrary, relaxed slightly. Until he remembered how exactly they were to go, and he swallowed. "Mithrandir, Caradhras has repelled us once, and I do _not_ want to give it any more reason to kill us than it already has."

Gandalf gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Trust me."

"We trusted you on Moria and look what happened." Legolas retorted.

Gandalf sighed again, a noise he was beginning to associate with Elves in general.

"The reason we drew so much attention before was that we had among us the Ring-bearer, bearing... Well, the Ring. Now, we should go unnoticed as a small group of travellers. For unknown reasons, true, but still, insignificant. You yourself have crossed the mountains quite a few times, _Elrondion_."

"Ah, yes." Elrohir's voice dripped with sarcasm. "We will have among us one of the Maia, a son of Elrond _Eärendilion_, the crown prince of Mirkwood, a _perian_, so rarely seen in these lands and kin to the Ring-bearer, and the son of Glóin, one of the reclaimers of Erebor. How insignificant."

"A _perian_! Sam is here?"

Elrohir gestured to the bundle lying still a few feet away, the only member not partaking in this argument.

"Now, do not be obstinate about this. We have no other real choice, for the others, if they manage to come through, will most definitely seek the safety of Lórien. We must meet them there, therefore the Gap of Rohan is not particularly convenient, as well, it takes us- _me_- far too close to Isengard for my liking. Moria is beyond us. We must take Caradhras, and pray to Eru that we will make it over."

The warriors nodded acquiescence, but Gandalf sensed their discontent, and it worried him. But for now, he was simply relieved that they had _agreed_, and let it go.

For now.

* * *

Smoke plumed out from the pipe. How Aragorn had managed to keep his pipe with him through the falling of rocks Elladan could not fathom, but such were the strange ways of Men, even one raised as an Elf.

"Estel," He murmured, and dropped silently by his side with the lithe grace of the Elves. They laid their heads back, against cold unforgiving stone, and looked into the distant blackness. Who could tell what might spring from the depths of Moria? Their decision, if it could be called one, had been forced at best. What else could they do, but press on?

"Elladan." A gentle hand found its way to his shoulder. "Elrohir is fine."

"You don't know that."

"Don't you?"

He was silent, choking on fear.

"No," He whispered finally, an admission that frightened him. "Estel, you know what it might mean."

"You would know if he was gone," Aragorn returned. "You would know. It is but the distance, brother, the distance and the darkness. He is alive."

Elladan shook his head, shifting listlessly. "I do not know. I hate not knowing! When it comes to him-" He cut himself off sharply. "Or you," He finished softly. "You're hurt, don't even try to tell me not so. But here I can do nothing, and I detest that."

"You've examined my leg. It is but a superficial wound. Elrohir is _fine**. **_Certainly better off than we are, in any case. He looked perfectly all right last I saw him... Elladan." Estel drew him in and pressed a hand to his beating heart. "Would you live on, should your bond be cut so suddenly?"

"No," he whispered again. "No." He repeated with more conviction, and sighed. "Thank you, _pen neth_. How many times others have said so to me I cannot count, but still..."

"I know," He murmured. A small smile appeared on his grave face. "And do not call me young one."

"Ah, but you are."

"I am not going to waste time arguing with an Elf 3,000 years my senior, who should know better."

"He does know better."

"I am not answering that."

"Estel?"

Aragorn grunted.

"Just now when you were tending Frodo... You asked him how he was, in a strange way. I cannot quite recall..."

A slight smile grew on Aragorn's face. "'Where do you hurt?' It's a phrase I heard, in my days patrolling the Shire. It is how the Hobbits question each other, when one falls or something of that sort. I thought it would calm Frodo."

"Ah."

A slight noise drew their attention to the Man a few feet away. He was supposedly sleeping, although anyone with eyes and ears could have seen that he was not. Boromir rose finally, seeming to give up all pretence of resting, and turned to them.

"Shall we move on? Clearly, none of us is going to get any rest, and the sooner we are out of here the better, as far as I am concerned."

Elladan could not help the flicker of relief that lit in his heart. He found that he needed no rest at all, but had not wanted to push the mortals beyond their limits, and so had proposed stopping for the night- or at least, what they assumed was the night, since day and night had no difference down here. He glanced at Aragorn, who if anything, looked even happier with this idea, and rose, striding over to lift Frodo.

The Hobbit stirred, but did not wake, which worried Elladan. Frodo had proved himself a light sleeper, waking at the slightest noise or movement- _or perhaps the Ring enhanced his senses and lifted his caution_, but the Elf did not like to consider that.

They set out, diffidently but desperately, through the long darkness of Moria that stretched out everlastingly before them. Four days, the journey might take with a sure guide, but now they knew not how many days they would endure in the choking blackness of the Mines. Aragorn had not travelled through these parts before, and they were well and truly lost within the vastness of the Dwarves' ancient stronghold, great and sorrowful and echoing with memories of past darkness.

_Durin's Bane_, the darkness whispered after them as their footsteps faded.

* * *

_January 15th, T.A. 3019_

"The Dwarf isn't _that_ bad, Legolas."

Legolas raised an eyebrow.

"Truly."

He raised it higher.

"_Truly."_

Higher.

"Legolas..."

"Do not waste your effort, Elrohir. The day Sauron comes to me on his knees and begs my forgiveness for terrorising the whole of Middle-earth, I will believe that the Dwarf is not that bad."

"You are exaggerating."

"So is he."

"Legolas!"

Elrohir groaned. The Wood-Elf walking beside him had got to be the single most stubborn creature Arda had ever had the misfortune to host, he thought wryly.

"Although... What is all this about names between you and he?" Legolas' lips twitched.

"Ah, that." Humour flickered in Elrohir's sombre eyes. "He apparently got a little... _confused_ over my twin and me. I had decided, like the courteous, mature individual that I am, to extend to him the questionable honour of being called by his name. He endeavoured to return the favour, but could not really do that when, well, he didn't know which name to call me by."

Legolas snorted.

This was getting ridiculous, Elrohir sighed to himself. Legolas and Gimli, freed from the responsibility of keeping at least a reasonable peace for the sake of the Ring-bearer, were unleashed upon each other, and the results were not pretty.

They were approaching the lower slopes of Caradhras now, and no one was particularly eager to renew their brief and quite literally stormy acquaintance with the mountain. Gandalf lead them on unfailingly, his good cheer everlasting and slightly annoying in the face of the fact that they were about to try a suicidal crossing _again_, but at least they were out of the darkness, far from the stone.

As far as Legolas and Elrohir were concerned, that was a blessing from Eru. Gimli did not view it quite in this light, and it had led to an unfortunate amount of arguments, such as-

"Master _Gimli_, my not inconsiderable wealth of patience is dipping dangerously low, a state which may or may not have everything to do with you. As such, I would advise you to hasten to either bring them up again."

-this one.

Elrohir sighed. While the name-calling had brought Gimli and him to a truce of sorts, it had had the opposite effect on Legolas and Gimli, and it was a peculiar pleasure for the Elf to emphasise unnecessarily on the _Gimli. _

"The two of you can either stop shouting or go throw yourselves off the nearest available cliff!"

Gandalf, it appeared, shared his opinion of the two, namely that they were blasted nuisances. He decided to intervene, just in case Mithrandir decided to help them along with the throwing-off-cliffs part.

"Mithrandir, let me carry Sam. Legolas, come sing to him, he is stirring. We should move faster to reach Caradhras before nightfall." Mithrandir shot him an impossibly grateful look, as Legolas stalked to his side and Gimli strode onward, shoulders stiff. He took Sam from the wizard's gentle grasp and walked on, Legolas' voice softly soothing the Hobbit.

Sam's eyelids fluttered, before he opened them properly for the first time with a perplexed look, and called the name of the one he loved most in all the world.

"Shh, Sam, easy. Frodo is safe." _Sweet Eru, let this not be a lie. _"He is safe, so are you." The little Hobbit's struggles eased; he lay his head back against Elrohir's arm and looked blankly at him as if he'd never seen him before.

"Sam? It is Elrohir. Do you know me?"

Sam blinked, as clarity returned to his gaze. "Mr. Elrohir! And Mr. Legolas. Where's my Master?"

Elrohir winced, but placed a reassuring smile on his face and tenderly stroked back a curl. "Frodo is safe, Sam, no worry for that. Rest now, rest..." Legolas' voice lifted again, quiet and sweet in the fading light, as they walked on.

Long leagues away, deep in the Mines of Moria, flame and shadow incarnate battled an Elf, two men, and a hobbit at the bridge of Khazad-dûm, and the echo of death and horror resonated far, far away.

* * *

So, there it is =) And oh my gosh, what will happen with the Balrog? /wince I certainly wouldn't like to be there. It would be painful. I mean, it was bad enough with nine of them, how on earth will they handle it as four, minus a wizard, who was the only one who actually matched the Balrog in rank? (Both were Maiar) Find out...


	6. Chapter 6

Hello!

Okay, here is the next chapter. Please read the AN at the end, and enjoy! Thank you, all reviewers and readers!

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

* * *

_January 15th, T.A. 3019_

The thick racket of battle sounded, the clash of metal on metal and the sickening sound of metal sinking into flesh. A distant rumble came to their ears, a vague hint of death and doom from the deepest places of the world.

They had hastened from the Chamber of Mazarbul, casting aside grief for Bilbo's old friend for another day- but not swiftly enough. The Bridge was in sight, but they were surrounded by orcs, hissing and spitting, their thin muscled arms striking everywhere. Frodo, a little disoriented still and shaky on his feet, lifted his sword with a clear bright cry of courage, and the orc fell at his feet. Drum beats permeated the air, great and constant and terrifying, shaking the very pillars.

Red light illuminated the halls before them, a flickering glow that grew ever stronger. The air burned their skin, fierce and hot, and they hurried on, forging a way through the seething masses of dark creatures that advanced on them from all sides.

"Fire?" Aragorn muttered, a frown marring his brow.

"Not any mere fire, little brother," Elladan whispered, darkness in his eyes. They hurried on. "We must reach the East Gate soon. I fear a foe beyond all of us."

Fierce orange and red lit the stone, and they could see their way well where a while ago they would have stumbled over their own feet. Smoke began to obscure the air.

"Strider! Are we running into a fire?" Frodo's high voice cried out. All around them the temperature soared, and flames were visible. Frodo's steps faltered, fearful of what lay in the halls ahead.

"The Bridge is near!" Elladan called. "See! We may yet escape." Boromir bent to lift Frodo as the Hobbit stumbled, and he did not protest. Now was hardly the time to take offense at someone carrying you, when seconds could mean a life won or lost. Orcs pressed in on them, filthy blades lifted. Frodo swallowed convulsively, one hand gripping the Ring.

They reached the start of the Bridge, and flew onto it. A few small pieces of stone crumbled beneath their feet and fell into the gigantic chasm below, but no one truly cared at that point.

A clearer sound reached them, a deep grinding echo. The earth shook. The orcs parted, as if they themselves were afraid of the creature approaching, and in a moment the four realised that they had good reason.

_Something was coming up behind them. What it was could not be seen: it was a great shadow, in the middle of which was a dark form, of man-shape maybe, yet greater; and a power and terror seemed to be in it and to go before it. _

_It came to the edge of the fire and the light faded as if a cloud had bent over it. Then with a rush it leaped across the fissure. The flames roared up to greet it, and wreathed about it; and a black smoke swirled in the air. Its streaming mane kindled, and blazed behind it. In its right hand was a blade like a stabbing tongue of fire; in its left it held a whip of many thongs.*_

Frodo screamed. The shadow awoke darkness and terror in him, and the Ring grew hot in his grasp, pulsing like a living heart. Elladan stopped still, fear setting his eyes on fire. He whispered something under his breath, which Frodo could not catch. Boromir's strong arms loosened, and he fell to the ground, feeling rough gravel dig into his cheek.

"A Balrog!" It was Aragorn's voice, loud and terrible into the hiss and crackle of fire. He spun. "Run!"

Frodo needed no second telling. He scrambled to his feet and took off on short legs that could move remarkably fast when its owner was terrified. Pounding steps behind him informed him that Boromir was following, but moments later his conscience mastered his flight instincts, _friends_ against _self_, and he stumbling to a halt, panting, and turned around.

Aragorn and Elladan stood before the great flaming shadow, shoulder to shoulder, and for one fleeting, incredible moment Frodo could see Elros and Elrond, illuminated with the majesty of days long lost in the sorrow of Arda Marred, brothers standing before a monster, great and noble and beautiful. Then the moment faded, and he saw not heroes but friends, and a tear-laden, hoarse cry tore from his lips.

The next moment he felt arms encircle him, and he was borne into the air, his face pressed against Boromir's shirt.

"No!" He screamed, and kicked wildly, but Boromir's grip was strong, and he began to run again, ever further across the bridge. Closer to safety, and further from their friends. "No!"

"Yes, Frodo," Boromir's harsh whisper sounded in his ears as a knife to his heart. "Yes. You bear the fate of us all, you must come through. Little one, you must survive." Boromir stumbled, but righted himself and carried on, gripping Frodo's hand. "Promise me, Frodo! If I cannot bear you on, run! Run for all of us, run to the Gates! Do not stay for us, you will doom Middle-earth. Please, Frodo, promise me!"

He screamed again, a raw sound of utter agony that echoed in Boromir's heart. Tears streaked his face and he sobbed, uncontrollably, into Boromir's strong arms. A great host of orcs appeared suddenly, their coarse cries filling the air. With a look of desperation and pleading, Boromir set Frodo down, and drew his sword.

It was never in question, Frodo's loyalty. And though it was with Middle-earth, and all the people he could save, it went first to the Man that had saved him. He ran back, Boromir's cries fading behind him.

* * *

"Estel!" Elladan snatched his shirt and drew him close, as flame and ash obscured the air. "Go. Please. We cannot hold him for long!"

"Indeed," Aragorn snapped back, wondering how his foster brother managed to be so ridiculously stubborn when a creature of darkness greater than any they had ever encountered before stood over them, whip and sword coming down. "Emphasis on the word 'we'."

"Aragorn." There was a note in Elladan's voice, a note which Aragorn absolutely hated hearing in the voices of Elves, because it meant that they were right and they knew they were right and it usually ended in a whole lot of heartache. "Elessar... Go, brother, and be who you were meant to be. Hope of Middle-earth: Do not fail them now!" Thunder deafened them, and the whip came down less than a foot from Elladan's foot. A warning. The Balrog would not wait much longer.

A cry came from behind them, a Hobbit's voice. Aragorn shut his eyes. _No. Not Frodo. _Elladan pushed him. "_Go!" _And he went, though his heart ripped itself apart as he did.

He pounded towards Frodo, the Hobbit clearly half out of his wits from terror and pain and pure bewilderment. He lifted Frodo, and immediately felt the full effect of a Hobbit's wrath. Frodo's arms struck at him, his face, his arms, his back, and the short legs kicked at his long ones with surprising strength. He stumbled, and crashed to the ground, tasting the salt of blood and bitter tears on his tongue as he pulled himself up, and the pain of a thousand wounds and a heart torn apart assaulting him. _Frodo, I love the brother I leave behind, but we two, we carry the hope and fate of this world, and we must not die. We must not die._

The Hobbit evidently did not understand this. "Frodo!" His horrible screams faded into heavy sobs, his blows into weak strikes. Fire came upon them, hot burning fire which scorched them and made him cry out in spite of himself. A sudden pain in his arm startled him, and he felt the sting of a sword.

Frodo.

The little sword had been drawn, its wielder mad with grief and anger. It was wildly slashed, but well enough held to cause a substantial amount of damage. A stroke caught his shoulder, drawing a deep gash along his arm. He groaned in desperate frustration, somehow one-armed wrestling Frodo in an iron grip on the Hobbit's sword arm, but the little one struggled on, no longer aware who he was attacking.

He gave up, and simply wrenched the sword from Frodo's grasp. As Sting clattered to the ground, he felt something inside break, as if the last part of Bilbo Baggins, the cheerful, innocent, brave Hobbit, was gone, burning in Moria. But he ran on.

"Aragorn!" Boromir stumbled up, pale and exhausted but appearing unharmed. He gripped Aragorn's arm helplessly. "Elladan?"

Grief choked Aragorn's voice, and he wordlessly gestured behind him. They turned as one, giving up one second to love and loyalty against survival, and watched the figure of the Elf and the Balrog. The Elf was clearly overpowered, but the words he uttered held the monster back, if only for seconds. He lay in a pool of glistening blood, but his sword was drawn and glistening in the fiery light as he cried out ancient words of power, beautiful and powerful and amazing. And Frodo, through the haze of tears and crazed sorrow, saw not Elrond, but his father Eärendil: A tragic bringer of hope, and as the world faded to the blackness of the coldest night, an icy burning ocean, he saw the lone star rising into the sky, and he cried for Gil-Estel.

Then they turned again, and ran, finally bursting through the Gates of Moria, tasting the sweet air of the outdoors as one with the bitterness of sorrow. But even now they were not safe, and in resolute despair they went on, and on, running far from the Gates, from the memory of a sacrifice and a comrade lost.

_Doom, doom. The drum-beats faded.**_

_

* * *

_

_January 17th, T.A. 3019_

It was a gradual thing, Elrohir's decline. Gandalf himself- and he prided himself in being observant- saw it clearly only at nightfall, and then he knew it had been happening for days. Elves had generally learnt by now to mask their faces in concrete expressionlessness, but there were always the eyes.

And sometimes, for a tragedy so great for one being, there was no need to hide anything any longer.

He knew, with bitter clarity, what could make the Elf look like that, although he would very much prefer not to. But he was not stupid, no matter how he might want to be sometimes (_How wonderful, not to know all that is wrong and evil in the world, and go my sweet way-) -_and he knew.

He said nothing as they ran on through the night, for none of them felt particularly like resting. They were all eager to reach the safety- questionable for Gimli, but still safety- of the Wood. Anything for a chance to sleep without waking at the slightest noise, to rest without suspecting every falling leaf of being a spy of Sauron's. A certain unease still sat on them from their easy crossing- too easy, the experienced warrior in each of them whispered. How could Caradhras have mellowed so much in a matter of days? Impossible. Something was wrong.

Perhaps he had been right, and it was the Ring that made the mountain react so violently to their attempt at crossing. But no mountain was that mild in winter, let alone Caradhras. Someone had wanted them to cross, had purposefully allowed them too... None of them would sleep that night, in any case, and the sooner Sam got to sleep in a bed instead of someone's arms or a blanket the better.

And the sooner Elrohir got to Lórien, the sooner he could stop worrying and fretting and trying to ignore the growing ache in his old heart for one more life given in the cause of the free.

He had forgotten, he admitted freely to himself as they jogged into the outskirts of Lórien, how very beautiful the Wood was. How beautiful, and how terrifying. There was a tangible power behind every golden flower, a power he knew all too well. He could not find it in himself to blame the Men their deluded fears of Dwimordene: He found himself scared at times, and that was an impressive feat, scaring a Maia. They trod the idyllic paths of sweet Lórien awhile, but he was tired, grieving, and soon very annoyed. He knew perfectly well that there were probably a dozen eyes watching them now, noting their every move and perhaps a little amused at the sight of him.

He shot a surreptitious glance at the Elf to his left. Elrohir did not even notice, let alone respond, and he sighed. How do you go on, when half of you has been ripped away? Would that be how he would feel if- _when, it must be when-_ the One was destroyed and Narya... Would the Elven Rings fail?

He breathed out, a long sigh of weariness and despair. He could not care overly much right now about whether or not his Ring would fail, he simply wanted to sit down. And somehow turn time back so Elrohir would look like the playful Elfling of long ago. Or Estel, a young Man-child trying so very hard to be like an Elf. Frodo, laughing, head bent over a book with Bilbo, without the age lines and the white hair, with all the vigour he'd used to defeat those trolls so long ago...

Stop dreaming, he told himself sternly. There may come a time you can indulge in watching children, but it is not now. Not here.

"_Daro." _

This is ridiculous, was his first thought. The days might be dark, but it reasonably obvious that he was Mithrandir and Elrohir was Galadriel's grandson, or was the March-warden's sight failing? He took a deep breath.

"Haldir." The Elf dropped in front of him, and although the thought that he had been walking with a being hanging from the tree above him was slightly disconcerting, it was the least of his concerns right now. "Take us to the Lord and Lady."

A strange look flitted across the Elf's face as he quietly took in their expressions, his gaze resting on Elrohir for longer than the rest. He hesitated, then spoke. "I cannot bring the Dwarf further."

Gandalf did his best to take hold of his temper and control it, not throw it at Haldir's head as he would prefer. "I will deal with that with your leaders. When you bring us to them." Haldir hesitated, before lifting his shoulders in the slightest hint of a shrug probably meant to indicate that if Gandalf wished to argue with Galadriel, he was welcome. He inclined his head, turned and strode off. Undoubtedly, there were Elves in the trees all around them, not that they would try anything- did they truly look like they wanted to?- but they simply trudged on, even Gimli too tired to make some remark about the Elven realm.

He could not but let out a sigh- one of relief, this time. Somehow, having someone else to lead him for once- even if he knew the paths of Lórien perfectly well- was surprisingly wonderful. He breathed the sweet scent that came with the air, and the faintest hint of a smile crept onto his face.

Sometime in his thousands of years on Middle-earth, Gandalf realised,_ Lórien _and _rest_ had become synonymous for him.

* * *

_January 15th, T.A. 3019_

They ran. Ran so they could lose themselves in their footfalls and the cold night wind on their faces and the physical exhaustion and pain. It was a tactic that Aragorn and Boromir knew did not work, but they could not bring themselves to acknowledge that, not yet.

How many times had they each tried it? Another soldier fallen, another Ranger gone: And you could sit by the fire and stare into it and feel another bit of your heart drain out, or you could run. And run they did. Through field and forest, stream and lake, across fen and fern, from heartbeat to heartbeat- anything that would not bring to mind a lost companion.

But sooner or later they had to face death head on, though experience did not seem to help in the slightest. Frodo had ceased fighting hours ago, and simply lay in a limp heap in Boromir's arms, silent, heavy heaving sobs shaking his small frame. He had not stopped crying since they left the Mines, and he did not seem to be stopping anytime soon. And one hand gripped the Ring unceasingly.

Boromir found his gaze drawn to it, again and again, as they ran. It was something other than the Elf to think about, and his mind latched on to it with frightening intensity. It called to life all his memories of the brave Men he had lost to the Shadow, of the sight of weeping women in the streets when he came back less a few soldiers, of the little children who grew up fatherless and so very determined to follow in their footsteps and fight for Gondor. Of blood and battlecries and pointless loss. Of lives as they faded away, despite all the desperate efforts of healers. Of men crying from pain so bad all you could do was end it kindly. _And you can change all of this, remake this scarred world into a blooming new one, you can take the White City and make it great again, and there would be no more tears._

Tears for an Elf- He would not have believed it, a few months hence. But Elladan was a soldier, and he'd always respected soldiers. Fighter. Sacrifice. No matter how annoying or infuriating or superior the Elf might have been, he had been one of the Fellowship, a good, brave warrior, and he was gone, a life given in exchange for theirs. If only he had been able to stay behind, to aid him, could it have been different? If they had sent Aragorn and Frodo onward, the Heir and the Halfling, to save the world while they made it possible...

Or if he'd done something, anything, anything at all, instead of running, running like a coward, deserting when he was most needed. If he'd taken-

_If you used the Ring... If you used the Ring... You could've defeated the Balrog... Could have..._

It was a starless night, deep and dark and endless. The fathomless scape of the sky was stretched out into forever, and he could almost believe that they could keep on running, go on, and on, and never come back or go anywhere. Just go on running, out of reach of strangling, groping memories and guilt and could-have-beens. Gone, Boromir. He is gone, have you not lost enough men to know that? There is no turning back the clock, no bargaining with death- or Balrogs.

He shut his eyes against tears of despair, and reached out a hand to stroke Frodo's curls tenderly. Sam, he thought. Frodo needed Sam now and no one else, not he, not Aragorn, not even the Elf they had lost. His friend, his servant. But where was Sam now? Where were the rest of the Fellowship?

Were they alive? Little Sam, so steadfast and loyal and loving, Gimli, who he actually considered a friend, Legolas, an Elf like the one they'd lost, Gandalf, who'd probably known Elladan for thousands of years...and Elrohir. Elladan's twin, his other half, his brother.

_You could have saved him. Used the Ring. No more tears._

No- No, not now, he thought, but they came, on and on. _The Ring. No more tears..._

To save Gondor. That had been all he'd ever asked, all he'd ever strived for. Was it too much? What more...? How many men's lives had been laid down on the great altar of war, of Sauron, of evil? What more could the Valar take from this forsaken world, but the lives of the innocent and the noble?

Ahead of him, Aragorn's tall figure stumbled, and the next minute fell, and did not move. He cursed himself in all the colourful language he knew, for stupidity and disregard and forgetting the age-old rule of caring for the living before the dead, and practically dropped Frodo in his haste, before he remembered that Frodo was hurt too.

_...Tears. They would not be hurt, this Man, a good Man, you cannot deny that. And this little one, who should never have seen the Ring, or Moria, or death. No more..._

He shook his head, a sob rising. But he was Boromir. Captain of Gondor. Soldier. He did not cry, especially not when his comrades needed him. He drew a deep breath.

_Gondor. The White City is beautiful, oh, so beautiful in the sun, great and glorious and his home. His blood and life and heart have been given so freely to Gondor, to the cause of his city. For Gondor did he trek to Imladris, for Gondor did he go on the quest. And for Gondor, Boromir, would you not take It? If taking It meant salvation for the world? You could bring down Sauron, restore your city. Save your friends- and your brother. Give Faramir his freedom to study what he wishes, and not go to war, never again- No one will go Elladan's way again. No more._

"Boromir?" Aragorn pulled himself upright, stiffly. Boromir started, realising he'd been staring into the distance, and he cursed himself again. _No more tears._

"You- We- need to rest," He managed roughly. "And decide on our course, instead of running like crazed beasts." His voice broke on the last word, but he found he didn't care. Above them, the first stars began to appear. Frodo finally quieted, and all was still.

Aragorn shut his eyes, and for one moment Boromir could read all the emotions the Man kept hidden, the love and sorrow for a brother dearer than blood could make him. Then resolve hardened his features, and Boromir's heart beat faster. _...Tears._

"We will go to Lórien."

It was a voice clear and strong, though laden with sorrow immeasurable and wisdom hard-earned, tempered by experience and roughened by weariness, it was a voice which would call out and draw all Men to it by the very sound of its timbre, a voice which would hold the loyalty of thousands and carry the courage of millions. It was the voice of a king.

And Boromir agreed, though he was wary of the Wood, wary beyond measure. Or rather he obeyed, because he thought that maybe he'd just seen the one Man he would submit to.

_No more tears._

_

* * *

_

**A/N**: I am aware that I have taken canon strange places with this chapter! It is not very possible that a mere Elf, no matter how powerful his bloodline, could even hope to engage a Balrog, let alone defeat it. Therefore, I have used the idea of certain names of light being able to hold back a creature of darkness, which the Balrog of Morgoth most certainly was, which was used in Fellowship of the Ring-

_'This was the stroke of Frodo's sword,' he said. 'The only hurt it did to his enemy, I fear; for it is unharmed, but all blades perish that pierce that dreadful King. More deadly to him was the name of Elbereth.'_

-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 193. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.

I know that the Black Riders were _men_, while the Balrog was a _Maia_, but since their nine rings greatly enhanced their power, and there were nine of them, I thought it might not be such a huge jump to assume that perhaps the name of Elbereth might have such an effect on the Balrog, although perhaps to lesser extent, and that, added to the clearly not inconsequential fighting skills of an Elf, might be enough to hold the Balrog back.

Also, an Elf and Balrog killing each other was clearly _not impossible, _since Glorfindel and Ecthelion managed it. (_The Fall of Gondolin, The Book of Lost Tales) _

Okay, so that's my reasoning. I hope it's acceptable; please review and tell me any comments or such. Thank you =)


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

* * *

_January 17th, T.A. 3019_

_The sun was sinking behind the mountains, and the shadows were deepening in the woods, when they went on again. Their paths now went into thickets where the dusk had already gathered. Night came beneath the trees as they walked, and the elves uncovered their silver lamps.  
Suddenly they came out into the open again and found themselves under a pale evening sky pricked by a few early stars. There was a wide treeless space before them, running in a great circle and bending away on either hand. Beyond it was a deep fosse lost in soft shadow, but the grass upon its brink was green, as if it glowed still in memory of the sun that had gone. Upon the further side there rose to a great height a green wall encircling a green hill thronged with mallorn-trees taller than any they had yet seen in all the land. Their height could not be guessed, but they stood up in the twilight like living towers. In their many-tiered branches and amid their ever-moving leaves countless lights were gleaming, green and gold and silver. Haldir turned towards the Company._

_"Welcome to Caras Galadhon!" he said. "Here is the city of the Galadhrim where dwell the Lord Celeborn and Galadriel the Lady of Lórien. But we cannot enter here, for the gates do not look northward. We must go round to the southern side, and the way is not short, for the city is great."_

_There was a road paved with white stone running on the outer brink of the fosse. Along this they went westward, with the city ever climbing up like a green cloud upon their left; and as the night deepened more lights sprang forth, until all the hill seemed afire with stars. They came at last to a white bridge, and crossing found the great gates of the city: they faced south-west, set between the ends of the encircling wall that here overlapped, and they were tall and strong, and hung with many lamps._

_Haldir knocked and spoke, and the gates opened soundlessly; but of guards they could see no sign. The travellers passed within, and the gates shut behind them. They were in a deep lane between the ends of the wall, and passing quickly through it they entered the City of the Trees. No folk could they see, nor hear any feet upon the paths; but there were many voices, about them, and in the air above. Far away up on the hill they could hear the sound of singing falling from on high like soft rain upon leaves.*_

Sam didn't think his eyes could truly grow any wider, had he tried to make them so. If he'd thought Rivendell impressive, he was stunned, amazed, flabbergasted now_. _Lórien of the Blossom was the single most beautiful place he'd ever seen in his entire life, and it was not a beauty merely of golden trees and green grass, of soft lights and white stone, it was a beauty deeper and truer than he could have dreamed of, strong and yet strangely fragile, real and yet not so.

But the true jewel of the forest, he realised with awe some time later, was not the leaves or the grass, not the songs or the lamps, but the inhabitants. Two inhabitants in particular, one of which he found himself staring in unmitigated wonder at.

Galadriel, Lady of Lórien, fair of face and hair, in whose eyes welled a wisdom and memory which both reassured and scared Sam. Celeborn, Lord of the Galadhrim, stood at her side, and they were as silver and gold together, the blending sylphs of incandescent beauty and regality. Sam suddenly felt very, very small, and wondered, with acute embarrassment, what on earth he, a lowly gardener of the Shire, which was far too small to even garner the slightest bit of notice from these great beings, was doing here.

"Welcome, Samwise of the Shire. You have come a great distance for one so small, and here you may find rest well-deserved."

He gulped, and squeaked. He blushed immediately, but found himself unable to utter a sound, and merely bowed his head and hurried after Gandalf to seat himself.

They told their tale quietly to the Lord and Lady, who for their part listened wordlessly, although they exchanged many glances heavy with meaning, but which were inscrutable to Sam. He noticed nothing, not even Gimli's anger and quick calming and sudden wonder, for suddenly all the concern for Frodo he'd somehow managed to put aside in favour of keeping awake as they ran came crashing, slick and stark, and his breath caught as he wondered where his Master was, now.

Somewhere deep in those horrible Mines, which had forced him from Bill- Sam choked back a sob at the thought- and Mr. Frodo was all alone, inside them! Well, he had Strider, and Mr. Elladan, and Boromir, but somehow his mind couldn't put itself to rest. Not that he didn't trust them, of course not, but surely it was better for him to be with his Master. Who knew what might happen? And after that awful snake monster, Mr. Frodo must be scared out of his wits in that dark place!

And suppose... Sam shivered at the possibility, but had to think of it. Suppose Mr. Frodo hadn't made it through? It had been an awful lot of rock, according to what everyone else said, and he hadn't even been awake to _see_, what kind of a servant was he? Getting himself knocked out like that so he couldn't even help Mr. Frodo!

A headache began to make itself known, pounding in his temples. Sam rubbed his forehead miserably, missing Frodo and Merry and Pippin and Rosie and...

Gandalf seemed to sense his distress, and when the Lord and Lady dismissed them, he knelt at Sam's side, a gentle look on his normally frowning face.

"Here now, Samwise Gamgee. It's not all as bad as it seems to you now, dear one. My heart tells me that Frodo is safe, though a great price may have been paid for it." A shadow crossed the wizard's face, and Sam shrank back, fearful. "But you need not worry your head over that. You must rest now, Sam, and heal, and wait for Frodo, for he _will_ come, trust me on that."

Sam nodded, though without conviction, and left without a word.

* * *

Gandalf watched the little Hobbit's retreating back, a sorrowful smile twisting his lips. Faithful Sam... He hoped he had not given the Halfling false comforts, though it was all too possible that he might have. He sighed, a long drawing out of breath that brought all his worry with it, and frowned.

"How did this come to pass?"

Galadriel's soft, clear voice interrupted his thoughts. She walked to his side with soundless steps, seeming to glide across the dew-webbed grass, face shadowed. Celeborn followed her a moment later, and Gandalf amused himself watching the light reflect of the Sindar's silver hair.

"How did this come to pass? A good question. How did Frodo come to have the Ring? How did Bilbo find it? How did Gollum, and before he Isildur, lose it? How did Sauron lose it? How did he make it? How did he trick the Elves? And do not give me a history lecture, Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin and Eärwen! There is more to the loom of Fate than mere chance or logic." She inclined her head in acceptance, but refused to be silent, as, he was beginning to suspect, was a trait of Elves, or perhaps of Celebrían's line in particular.

"But that was not the essence nor answer of my question, and it would behoove you not to twist my meaning, Mithrandir. I was not asking the reason for all the evils in the world... Only for one." Her deep eyes searched his, penetrating and cool. "How has it come to pass, Gandalf, Grey Pilgrim, that my grandson lives not in this world any longer?"

He let out a breathless groan he hadn't realised he was holding in. Darkness waxed in his eyes, as he met the Lady's squarely._ How, indeed?_

_"_There is no rhyme or reason, my lady," He replied finally, "to tragedy. Have you not faced enough of it, to know and understand that well? Or has Nenya's powers truly protected you in the Wood so well that you have forgotten just what the rest of Middle-earth has paid for the folly of the Elves?"

Rage flamed in Galadriel's eyes, and colder fury in Celeborn's. This is how they balance each other, he mused to the side, as the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood rose in high wrath before him and he beheld the true power behind Lórien. It was Celeborn who spoke finally.

"We remember, Mithrandir, and we remember well. You, of all, should know the burden that is bearing a Ring of Power. Think not that Lórien has been exempt to the shadow that falls across Middle-earth! We know, and unlike many others, we can remember in all spectacular detail Sauron's rise. It is not something we are likely to forget."

Galadriel spoke next, fire after ice. "Know you this, Olórin: What you so callously term the folly of the Elves, I contended. I was there, and I shall not forget. I shall never forget, not even when I pass into the West, or so it seems to me. Most of all, we have felt stinging lash of the Enemy in a way that no one can argue. Do not dismiss Celebrían, wizard."

He actually found himself chastised, and he a Maia. Although Hobbits were perfectly capable of putting him in his place at times, but these Elves were in another league altogether.

"I know. I know, and I seek your forgiveness for words spoken in haste and despair. There were, indeed many more reasons for evil in this world than merely the Elves." He met their eyes. "And no, my lady, I do not dismiss Celebrían. I should not have forgotten her, in a moment of quick anger. For that more than any else I beg your forgiveness: Yes, you know well the repercussions of Sauron's impending reign."

They bowed their heads, easily accepting his apology, and swiftly moved on, their composure flowing like quicksilver on as if nothing had shaken it in the first place. Mention of their daughter still hurt them, Gandalf reflected quietly. No, Elves were not immune to sorrow.

"For Elladan I also am sorry, though I do not ask forgiveness. It was I who led them to Moria, against Aragorn's and some of the Company's wills. Perhaps had we continued on Caradhras, it would have been different. I know not what they encountered in the Mines, nor who came out alive. Yet I believe that Frodo lives, though in what shape I cannot say." He raised an eyebrow, looking at Galadriel. "Now, my lady, might be an opportune time to make use of your Mirror."

She gave him a level look, pondering the suggestion. Finally, she nodded and turned, and he followed the two, unease festering in his heart- unease, and fear of what he might see.

* * *

"That was... an interesting experience."

Elrohir looked up, forcing a passable grin onto his face. "Was it?"

"Yes." Legolas nodded the affirmative, a smile playing at his lips. "I never thought to see a Dwarf- a _certain_ Dwarf- in such awe of an _Elf._ Quite amazing, come to think of it."

Elrohir made some sort of noise in agreement, before gaining his feet and leaving the clearing, suddenly and silently. Legolas watched him go, all mirth dropping from his face abruptly. The lamps shone softly above them, he and Gimli, as they looked wordlessly at each other.

"I fear..." Gimli's rough voice broke the silence, and Legolas looked up in surprise. "Not much could make him look like that- Is it not so, master Elf?"

"It is," Legolas murmured in reply. "I, too, forebode that something has happened to Elladan. I only hope it is not..." They looked at each other again, in sudden understanding of the other in face of grief and loss.

"Perhaps it is, laddie, and perhaps it is not. There is not much we can do, but watch and wait."

"Perhaps." Legolas replied. "I would not leave him to grief or doubt."

"He did not look like he wanted company," Gimli retorted bluntly. "Sometimes, the only and best way of mourning is alone."

"We speak as if he truly is gone."

"Do you believe that he is not?"

Legolas shifted penetrating eyes onto him, and he endured half a minute of scrutiny before exploding at the Elf in an eruption of slightly unpleasant Dwarven curses. By the end of it, Legolas had gathered that Gimli did not like Elves at all. A small smirk made its way onto his face.

"I wouldn't say that, Master _Gimli._ After all, you did seem rather infatuated with a certain Elf just now."

Gimli growled.

"And no one could contend the fact that the Lady of Lórien is indeed a wondrous visage..."

Gimli's face turned a rather interesting shade of red.

"So wondrous, in fact, that she might even capture the gruff heart of a noble Dwarf warrior!"

And Legolas ran.

He ended up sitting in a mallorn tree, a seething Dwarf below him snorting like a bull, fervently hoping that no Lórien Elves would come along and see how he was 'dishonouring' their beautiful trees. Gimli was pacing below the tree, a constant litany of what he was going to do to him pouring from his lips as he brandished his axe dangerously. The tree, for all its age and experience and composure, seemed to tremble.

Legolas tried not to laugh.

Gimli glared darkly up at the rustling leaves.

Then the Elf dropped to the ground, so quickly that Gimli choked on his own words, eliciting another bout of laughter from the Elf. Then Legolas, to Gimli's utter astonishment, offered a hand, a wry smile on his lips.

"It seems Elrohir was right, Master Gimli. You are not that bad: You are worse."

Gimli stared at the Elf in disbelief, deciding that that must be the first offer of friendship he'd ever heard which managed to insult someone while offering a truce. He took the Elf's hand, albeit rather doubtfully, fully expecting him to twist his arm or something along those lines.

The Elf merely looked at him, enigmatic smile already on his face as he turned. Then he paused.

"Master Gimli, we have had our differences- in a rather childish way, if I might add. But now, perhaps..." He spun to face Gimli, eyes of frightening intensity boring into Gimli's. "A shadow is quickly falling across the world. It may be that this is what is needed to defeat Sauron: true unity between _all_ the free peoples of Middle-earth. Soon it may be too late for petty insults and foolish jibes. Soon others, so many others, will go Elladan's way, and the world has need of not fighting children, but of friendship." A sudden smile appeared. "What say you?"

Gimli searched the Elf's face himself, determined not to be intimidated. Dwarves had a code of honour of their own, and he would not disgrace it now. His eyes met the immortal orbs of the Elf, and he nodded.

Something rose in that moment: The first budding hints of a friendship that would, one day, stand before the Black Gate and defy everything that had ever been said about them. A defiance that built with each laugh, each fight, each understanding: One that Sauron would one day rue.

They stood there, two figures, a study in opposites: One short and squat, one tall and lithe, and yet both with hearts brimming with courage and loyalty, looking at each other, each quietly examining the other.

An Elf broke the trees, slightly disheveled but not even breaking a sweat from the evident run. Both lifted their heads, combining their considerably formidable stares on the guard, who returned them with equanimity. Clearly, being a guard under Lord Celeborn gave you ample experience in deflecting glares.

"My..." He cast a look of thinly-veiled disgust at Gimli. "...Lords, the rest of your Company have arrived."

* * *

Lórien, Frodo noted somewhat distractedly, was beautiful. Or rather, what he would have considered beautiful before the Ring. Now it was simply... Simply an echo of what he wanted and did not have.

_Peace_.

And yet... With detachment, he surveyed the forest around him. Something about it called to him, to the Ring he bore around his neck. Something of power, great power, that pulsed and shook behind the beauty all around. He had a strange feeling that this place was not quite so perfect as it seemed.

But he found he had not the heart to ponder that now. He was heartsick, bitterly so, guilty and angry and sorrowful and so, so tired. He cast a glance at Aragorn, walking in front of Boromir, in whose arms he was now lying. The Man's shoulders were slumped, in defeat that Frodo had not seen from him before. The injuries that he himself- _he!-_ had forced upon Aragorn stood up starkly, and he shuddered again.

How could he have done it- To the Man who had saved them time and time again? No matter how mad with grief he had been, he should have had more control, should never have hurt one friend in an effort to help another, and no matter how many times Aragorn assured him that he placed no blame, Frodo's heart would not forgive itself.

_Grief? Frodo, Elladan was his brother. He had so much more right to grief than you, and yet-_

He swallowed convulsively and pulled his hand away from the Ring as it burned him, searing desire into his veins.

_You could have prevented it, all of this. Elladan's sacrifice, Boromir's bitterness, Aragorn's sorrow... And the rest of the Fellowship, what of them? They who swore to follow and protect you, who you lead to their probable deaths. Even if they are not dead yet... How long, Frodo? How long before something or other on this ridiculous quest kills them? One by one, till you are alone, all alone with the Ring._

_And then, Frodo, you will take It. Why not? _

No.

_Why not then? Why not now? You could save them. Love, it is a powerful tool. And so it this little trinket. Together... Together, they could save the world._

He shut his eyes against more tears.

The next moment, he opened them to find an Elf standing right where Boromir had been about to put his boot, and he sputtered. It wasn't very dignified, or even very civilised, but he did, from simple surprise. The Elf regarded him with polite startlement and a little amusement, but then bowed to Aragorn and drew him aside, speaking rapidly in Elvish, which was pretty much understandable, seeing as the name uttered by the Elf was one very familiar.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar Quenya, which Frodo wished would be switched to Sindarin, which would be slightly easier to comprehend, the name of the Elf they had lost was all too clear, as was the clouding of Aragorn's grey eyes as he shook his head and replied quietly, his meaning clear. Frodo turned away.

A low murmuring of voices penetrated his awareness, and he sighed, laying his head against Boromir's shoulder, shifting uncomfortably, as they began to move again. The leaves above them trembled at their footsteps, the occasional stray one falling to gently touch his hair before slipping off, and his eyelids began to close.

It was perhaps a half an hour later that he jolted awake at the sound of his name, though he could not tell through the phantoms that whispered in his dreams. His name, called by one he'd never thought to see again, and his eyes snapped open, wild, pupils slightly dilated, tearing from Boromir's restraining arms in search of Sam.

A cry drew his attention to the other side of the clearing he found himself in, and he saw Legolas gently, but firmly holding the Hobbit loudly yelling his name, nearly frantic with concern. The sight of him, clean and hale and _safe_, made the ache in Frodo's heart recede, just a little, and he pulled himself forward, only to be stopped- _once again_- by Boromir's arms. The Man lifted him up, whispering apologies in his ear, but he was past listening now.

His name- The one word that made up his name, screamed over and over again by a desperate little gardener currently giving Legolas an extremely hard time, ringing in his ears, and he _needed_ to get to Sam, to touch his warm cheek and hear his beating heart and assure himself that his little servant truly was safe, and then hug him, hug him and cry and let him draw off the burden as only Sam could-

A soft cloth touched his cheek, with an infinitely tender, gentle hand that brushed his tears away, and light flooded his vision. The air changed, registering the presence of one whose power was nearly tangible in her touch, a power both of her own and of something which she bore, melding their strengths together as one...

Dimly, the cries for him reached his ears, but he was detached from them, his consciousness floating somewhere only those who bore a burden such as his could touch. A bright flame burned somewhere in front of him, not cold and haunting as was the spirit of the Witch-king, but great and good and beautiful, and he, a broken lonely figure with a tremulous glow, struggled towards it, and the suddenly he could smell spring flowers and taste sweet air again.

Then he was back in himself, caught in the gaze of the Lady, and Sam's name died on his lips as her voice flooded his mind, speaking of things that were, and are, and will be, dark and dreadful and... and not without a tinge of hope colouring the worst visions, and he began to take heart, too, for surely if one so great could, he could as well-

"Mr. Frodo!"

And suddenly there was nothing, nothing but his servant and friend and brother, stout and steadfast, one unwavering rock in an endless sea of shifting waves, and as Sam took him in his arms and the two Hobbits held each other, and no matter how brilliant the light of Lady Galadriel might be, Frodo would always love the quiet glow of his Sam most.

* * *

*J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 344. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.

Okay, this chapter is over! Writing Frodo was a little hard, I wasn't quite sure where he would be: emotionally detached, or deeply emotional? Please review with your opinion :)


	8. Chapter 8

And here is the next chapter! I would like to apologise for the rather skewed posting schedule I have... What with real life getting itself ostentatiously in the way, there's not much choice! Thank you for reading; hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

* * *

_January 21st, T.A. 3019_

Dusk was settling its mantle gently over the Woods when Galadriel came to her only remaining grandson, at the foot of Cerin Amroth. The lamps were beginning to light, and the soft Elven voices beginning to lift, and in the serenity, the reassuring embrace of the golden trees, Elrohir sat, legs stretched out and arms crossed in an attitude of disquiet, grey eyes looking into the distance as violet deepened to grey.

She went to his side with a silent trod, her footsteps soundless on the grass, and lowered herself to the ground, fair hair glinting in the quiet light, her white gown shining in the glow of the lamps, a million shifting jewels shining as her body moved.

"Is he alive?"

Elrohir shifted on the ground and pressed one hand to his forehead as if in search of an answer he already knew, with chilling certainty, but he did not look up. "No, as well you know, Daer-naneth. You have seen it." She did not deny it, and they sat in silence for a while.

"How was it?" He asked finally, his eyes still shaded from her.

"Beautiful," She answered, after a long pause. "Beautiful, and horrific. But such is the way of deaths as noble as your brother's. The Balrog fell; he cast it down." Here his head jerked up, surprise clear in his face, his clear-cut mouth and dark eyebrows, the one unnoticeable scar on his chin that marked him as different from his brother... She smiled, a small smile of tenderness and sorrow. "Yes, he cast it down. Much strength can be drawn from desperation. Rest assured: Elladan died a hero."

Elrohir moved again, resting his head against the bark of a tree, and still refusing to look at her. "Hero, coward, what does it matter? In the end-" He broke off and sighed.

"It matters, Elrohir." Galadriel returned, lifting her head. "It is the one thing that matters in this twisted world, my child, and the difference between nobility and cowardice so small, so grey, sometimes it is not difference at all. And yet you know it matters. It matters because it makes the difference between Elladan and the Balrog, between Mithrandir and Saruman. It is the way my grandson wanted to die- for Middle-earth, for Frodo, for Estel... For you. Do not dishonour that sacrifice now."

He said nothing, merely looking to a place far away, with eyes of molten silver that were frighteningly hollow. She hesitated, and spoke again, slowly, but decisively, as one who has made a hard decision.

"Elrohir, you are weary, of body and of heart- and of spirit. You need not continue the quest. No one can argue that you have given all you could give, the one most dear to you, and it is too much. Too much, and yet not enough." She paused, passing a hand across her eyes. "You may linger here in Lórien til the War is over, for better or for worse... Or you may pass into the West where you may heal." She searched his face, gently probing.

He looked wordlessly up, and seemed to draw strength from the stars. "I made an oath, Daer-naneth. Ada did not require it of us, but I made it, as I suspect many of us did. I swore to stay by Frodo's side, til his task be complete, or death take one of us. I will hold to it."

"_Let no man swear to walk in darkness who has not seen the nightfall,_"* she murmured.

"He said that."

"Where do you believe he found it from?" Galadriel placed her hand on his shoulder. "No oath holds you, Elrohir Elrondion. Go whither you wish, for all that can be asked of you has been done."

And she left.

Elrohir was left, as night began to breathe and the stars began to shine. The voices of the Elves fell, as they retreated to rest. He lay down on the grass, head pillowed in his arms, and watched the stars traverse the sky. His second visitor of the night appeared in the trees, steps not as silent as Galadriel's, and yet far lighter than a normal Man's.

"You don't suppose the Valar would do it again?"** A small smile tugged at Elrohir's lips despite himself. Little brother. From a guileless little boy with such an artless adoration of his foster brothers with their sharp swords and shining spears, to a tall, grave Man with hardship etched on his face in lines that never appeared on those of the Elves he called family. But so many, many memories of him were intertwined with those of one he had lost. His face sobered.

"How is your back?"

"Do not change the subject."

Silence.

"Elrohir, talk."

"If it was so, I would not wish that for Elladan." A bitter look grew in the Elf's eyes. "Glorfindel is a magnificent warrior, a great Elf, and I love and respect him. But Estel, when one has seen death, why should one fear it? When one has fought a Balrog, why should one fear orcs? It is why he is so formidable. He is fearless. But sometimes I watch him and I wonder why they ever sent him back, if needs must have him live a life like that."

Aragorn shut his eyes. "I have seen it," he responded softly. "The look in his eyes, sometimes, when he is alone. After fighting that which is of all Elf-banes the most deadly, save the one that sits in the Dark Tower, perhaps it is best... Perhaps it is best to seek peace in the Halls."

"Yes," Elrohir murmured. "Alas for those left behind! They will tarry, neither here nor there: For whither shall I go now?"

Aragorn was silent for a long moment. "West."

"No... No, Estel. I yet have one brother, and I will not abandon him while this world yet stands."

"He does not command your loyalty. No one does. Elrohir, I would not see you fade. Please, seek healing on the shores beyond the sea."

"I may not continue the quest," Elrohir replied at last, reluctantly. "That I will consider. But I will not leave these shores before the War is decided, whichever way it goes. If, Eru willing, we prevail, I will sail. If we do not, I may yet follow Elladan."

Shadows gathered in grey eyes as Aragorn regarded his foster brother. He knelt at Elrohir's side, sudden hardness in a face in which suddenly flamed the majesty of ancient kings, a stubborn will and quiet persistence Elrohir had come up against before. _Sweet Eru, _he couldn't but think, _from a toddler wanting sweets to a Man wanting me to leave, it never changes._

"Why will you not leave?"

Elrohir met his eyes squarely, giving up all pretense of avoidance.

"We- And I am not afraid to use Elladan's name- we have fought and bled and risked all we had for Middle-earth for nigh three thousand years, Estel. Long ages before you were a thought in Ilúvatar's mind, we took up arms for this earth and this land because we loved it, we love it and it is our home as truly as Valinor is home to all Elves. The first time I picked up a sword, Aragorn, was with the thought of my home in mind, the endless hours we spent perfecting technique after technique, the battles we fought, the losses we endured, it was all for this land. I will not leave it in its darkest time, not while I draw breath. I will stay: To see the death of all our hopes or to witness the glory of a new Age of freedom. I will not leave."

Aragorn was silent, noting the subtle change in Elrohir's tone: Not _Estel, _little brother, but_ Aragorn, _heir of kings. His blood burned in his veins, and he shut his eyes against the tears that the Elf's passion awoke.

Men, who were supposedly the creators and keepers of this New Age, Dwarves, with all their sturdy, smoldering fire, even little Hobbits, innocent and amazing: He had not seen this depth of utter abandon in any single being before. Perhaps eternal years gave Elves time, time to perfect the art of emotion, complete and total and unimaginably stirring to the hearts of those to whom it was not given to be immortal- fleeting, swift, burning bright for a heartbeat before fading before the appearance of new, mortal heroes.

But the Elves, who would remain, unchanging, watching mountains rise and fall, lakes made and eroded, mortals live and die, thousands of years in which to learn to love with absolute commitment. He could not deny him this.

They sat there as night deepened and then faded, and the sun began to rise over the idyllic trees and-

* * *

Frodo lay with his head in Sam's lap, one hand idly threading flowers into each other, intricate works that were each unique: a handful of sweet peas coupled with elanor, a few carnations with dahlias wound around them, a bunch of woodbine and a single iris, which he offered to Sam with a wordless look of gratitude.

Sam's face turned a strange shade of red, and Frodo laughed, a high clear sound not often heard. A small smile worked its way onto Sam's face, as he took the flowers with a bashful look. "That's right pretty, Mr. Frodo, puts Rosie in my mind at that, but you should give it to someone else."

A grin lit Frodo's face, and he reached into his shirt, drawing out a handful of light pink petals and offering them.

"They're dried, I couldn't find any fresh here, but they do still smell beautiful." Sam's whole face turned from red to pink, as he blushed, and he accepted the rose with all the ardour Frodo was sure he would someday accept another Rose. _If he lives._

Oh, but today was not a day for brooding on the Ring, it was a day to forget and be grateful and love. He reached out to press Sam's hand, inwardly thanking Bilbo for all the days they'd spent, heads bent over the old book of flowers, studying their meanings as sunlight bathed the room... He touched a hand lightly on the patch of white heather. _Protection. _It always brought Bilbo to mind.

"Woodbine means love... And iris friendship. Sam, look at me." Frodo laughed at Sam's horrified look. "And I know I'm probably breaking some unspoken rule of etiquette, but I don't particularly care about the Proudfoots- sorry, Proudfeet- and their everlasting manners." He smiled a little.

"In Moria, I learnt how much I depend on you, Sam. You do so many things for me, and I never noticed, and no, it wasn't your duty, it was your love. It was you, I think, more than anything, even- Elladan- that threw me, that broke me, that pushed me off that cliff into..."

He would not say _insanity, _for if his innocence was gone he could at least protect Sam's.

"-Mad grief, you, and the thought that you might not go home to your Rosie. I'm- so sorry for bringing you here, Sam, but I'm so glad you are here, all the same."

Sam stammered something inaudible, and Frodo laughed again. He carefully picked a single hyacinth, intertwining it with a couple of white tulips, surveying his work critically.

"Who's that for, Mr. Frodo?"

"This?" He held up his latest work. "Strider. Aragorn. I don't know what to call him, Sam! But the flowers mean forgiveness, and apology, and I have so many to say to him." Sam made to protest, but Frodo shook his head. "No, Sam, nothing can make that better. I hurt him, physically, took a sword and attacked him. I can never make up for that, but I may try. I also need to say a thank you, for you tell me he was the one who got them to release you so you could come to me!" Seeing the frown on Sam's face, he smiled and picked up another. "This is for Boromir. The flower of the black poplar... It stands for courage." He hesitated, then slowly drew out a drawing. "This is for Elrohir. The cypress tree, for goodbye. I think... I think he will not come with us, Sam, when we leave."

"He won't, Mr. Frodo." There was quiet certainty in Sam's voice, and intelligence which sharply reminded Frodo that Samwise's name did not suit him, not at all.

"This," he tried to smile, "is for Lady Galadriel, though how I am to work up the courage to give it to her I cannot guess. The calla lily...for magnificent beauty."

Sam blushed.

"Ah, Sam, could it be that you might be doubting that Rosie-lass isn't the fairest in all the world?"

"I never did, Mr. Frodo, I never did. Rosie isn't the fairest, no doubt about that, but her heart's the truest, and though mine can't begin to match it, I might hope for it." And he blushed again, at Frodo's honest laughter.

"Lórien is beautiful," Frodo murmured after a short silence, a more sombre note entering his voice.

"That is is, Mr. Frodo! Why, I thought Rivendell quite wonderful, all those Elves, but these Woods are another thing altogether!" Sam's face lit with enthusiasm. "The trees grow so well, even better than back in the Shire. Their flowers are ever so pretty, especially these little golden ones," He touched elanor tenderly. "And it seems so peaceful, not that Rivendell and home weren't, of course, certainly when compared to Boromir's big city, but it's different here. Quieter. A bit like in Rivendell, but not like back home, where it's all busy. Oh dear, I'm rambling on, sir!"

Frodo smiled, but his mind was working. _Oh, yes,_ he thought. _Rivendell and __Lórien are quite different from the Shire... although perhaps not so much. Suppose they each had a special burden to bear..._

___"_How do you like sleeping in the trees?" He forced the normalcy.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo! Not to sound ungrateful, of course, but Hobbits simply aren't made to sleep that high, sir, you must see, as the Gaffer always said, we should keep on the ground where we belong! There must be a reason we weren't made terrible tall, just as there's a reason for everything..." He went on, but Frodo had latched on to that statement.

"...Everything, Sam, do you think?" Sam's mouth opened, and closed, and opened again. He seemed all set to apologise, red spots on his cheeks, when he stopped.

"Mr. Frodo, I do think so. My head is not the best around, of course, master, but I do think there must be a reason for everything. Maybe we're going because if we didn't go, some others would go, maybe that young lad I saw just last year, kicking acorns around, maybe Rosie, maybe Merry and Pip, and why, even if Hobbits weren't involved in this great mess at all, why then, sir, some others would go, some great noble heroes, like Strider or Boromir or Legolas, who would most likely do it, and well too, but we... we'd have been saved by them and we wouldn't even have known it. We'd go on living our happy, peaceful lives and we wouldn't _know_ that somewhere strangers were dying so we wouldn't have to!"

Sam drew in air, eyes burning fiercely into Frodo's with a passion the quiet gardener had never known before.

"And maybe we're doing this because we're the only ones who could ever hope to do it, and if we didn't, we would be so selfish, I would be ashamed of myself."

Sam stopped for breath, and suddenly seemed to come to himself and realise that he'd been scolding his master, or at least as he saw it. "Oh, Mr. Frodo, I am that sorry! I didn't mean to go against you, sir, I didn't. I just got myself confused and up, like Sam always does, please do forgive me."

Frodo was silent, stricken. A light dawned in his eyes, and suddenly his countenance changed, to one great and beautiful as Sam had never seen before. A brilliance glowed in his face, as one who has seen enlightenment and taken hope.

"You are right, Sam, absolutely right! Do not apologise! I should thank you, once again, my dear Sam. What would I do without you, my keeper of faith?" Affection filled Frodo's voice, and he reached for Sam, closing him in an embrace full of warm gratitude, for his eyes seemed to open and-

* * *

_-The birds began to sing._

_

* * *

_

_February 14th, T.A. 3019_

_'You are wise and fearless and fair, Lady Galadriel,' said Frodo. 'I will give you the One Ring, if you ask for it. It is too great a matter for me.' _

_Galadriel laughed with a sudden clear laugh. 'Wise the Lady Galadriel may be,' she said, 'yet here she has met her match in courtesy. Gently are you revenged for my testing of your heart at our first meeting. You begin to see with a keen eye. I do not deny that my heart has greatly desired to ask what you offer. For many long years I had pondered what I might do, should the Great Ring come into my hands, and behold! it was brought within my grasp. The evil that was devised long ago works on in many ways, whether Sauron himself stands or falls. Would not that have been a noble deed to set to the credit of his Ring, if I had taken it by force or fear from my guest? _

_'And now at last it comes. You will give me the Ring freely! In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountains! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!' _

_She lifted up her hand and from the ring that she wore there issued a great light that illumined her alone and left all else dark. She stood before Frodo seeming now tall and beyond measurement, and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful. Then she let her hand fall, and the light faded, and suddenly she laughed again, and lo! she was shrunken: a slender elf-woman, clad in simple white, whose gentle voice was soft and sad._

_'I pass the test,' she said. 'I will diminish, and go into the West and remain Galadriel.'***_

Sam breathed. That simple action seemed far too complex for his lungs at the moment, and he choked softly into the starlit night. He had seen things this night, that before he had not dared to dream of, not wanted to dream of.

Elf magic... The very mention, the shape of the words on his tongue had so excited him! It was all so great and high and wonderful, and he had been stupefied with delight at the chance to see some in action. But now he wished he hadn't, for he didn't understand anything at all, and Mr. Frodo looked so lost and sad, and for once Samwise Gamgee was speechless.

The Shire! His old gaffer, thrown out, and Frodo- Frodo lying so pale and still, asleep?- and that Ted Sandyman, cutting down trees left and right, how he wished he could've been there, he'd have seen that Sandyman got his due!

It had all looked so real, so close, in the dark glass waters of Galadriel's mirror.

And then Mr. Frodo had looked in, and he had looked for so long, so riveted, so unconscious of anything other than the smooth surface of the mirror, it had scared Sam. Sometimes he saw such a look on Mr. Frodo's face, an echo of the looks on the Elve's faces, ancient and wise and far, far away. But it couldn't be! Mr. Frodo was his, a Hobbit like him, of course much wiser than he, but not so far away, he couldn't be.

And then a look of such terror and fear... and he fell forward, and Sam would have run to him, but a strange force compelled him to stay still.

And Lady Galadriel had refused the Ring.

He had been surprised when she had not taken it, and for one moment it had truly seemed as if she would, so great and dark and powerful, though she had not seemed quite so beautiful in that second of desire. But still, if only she'd taken it! She would do good with it, he was entirely sure, for she must be good. Then they could all go home, and Mr. Frodo would be an ordinary Hobbit again, just a slightly odd, very rich Baggins...

But deep in his heart Sam knew his Master best, and he knew that Frodo could never go back. There would be no true homecoming for Frodo for a very, very long time, perhaps not ever- and if and when it happened, it would not be the Hobbit who left the Shire who returned, but one who had passed through the fire of doom, alive but not unchanged. His Master had seen things, done things, felt things that Sam could not ever hope to understand, and yet he did so want to! If only to lift that terrible burden from Mr. Frodo, just for a while, a little while...

Beside him, Frodo shifted, his face turning so it was caught in the white mystery of moonlight. It lit up the sunken shadows in Frodo's face, making him look all at once young and old, a curious blending of wisdom and innocence that made Sam swiftly and impulsively land a kiss on Frodo's forehead, wistfully, as if he knew the Master he'd served for so long was gone.

But then Frodo moved, pressing his face against Sam, and he began to think that maybe Frodo wasn't so different after all.

No matter that the accursed Ring could be seen glinting under Frodo's collar, or that there was a scar now on his shoulder that would never fade, or that his face was lined with sorrow, or that his mind was far too perceptive for any normal being. No matter that sometimes he looked into the distance and saw an endless Eye, or that at night dark kings stabbed him in dreams, or that he was walking to a sacrificial death with nothing other than courage and good humour and friendship.

A tragic bravery was in Frodo now, a part of him. It was something Sam could never change, now.

"_No, I'll go home by the long road with Mr. Frodo, or not at all."****_

He would hold to his oath, for his master was his master, stranger or no, and he would rather trod all the paths of the world with Mr. Frodo than go home to all the Hobbits in the Shire.

* * *

*Adapted from J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 274. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.

**Glorfindel.

I didn't know how complicated a matter it was, really, until I did some research for a few basic facts. Apparently, Tolkien maintained that Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel in LOTR were one and the same, but he had a problem solving his resurrection. He pondered making Glorfindel one of the Maia, but discarded the idea, because Elves are not Maia, period. He was sent back somewhere in the Second Age, as a sort of precursor to the Istari. And I had to sieve through all this strange information to find the simple fact that yes, he was sent back by the Valar! All that for one little reference. It would have made more sense to simply drop the reference, no? But this is me... making work for myself *g*

***J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 356-357. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.

****J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 354. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.

All the flowers that Frodo talks about are real! I'm not sure if they existed in Middle-earth, but my mother has this fascination with plants and their meanings and always taught them to me! The idea of he and Bilbo studying flowers is purely made up, I just thought it would be a nice touch!

Hope you enjoyed! Please review :)


	9. Chapter 9

Welcome back! Here, we see the departure from the last safe place they will encounter as a Fellowship, and begin to feel the effects of the Ring's whispers on all of them, in particular a certain Steward's son... Please read and enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

* * *

_February 16th, T.A. 3019 _

Boromir's strong arms flexed, and the oar rushed through the water again, propelling the boat further, ever further from the Woods. His heart was troubled, his mind dark, and turmoil in his spirit, for it seemed to him that they were striking out for nothing. He drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders, feeling the winds of February, and sighed, one hand touching the gold of the Lady's gift to him.

It had not been her only one.

Her voice! It had run on, unceasingly almost, throughout his stay in Lórien, ringing in his ears, echoing her offer again and again. Clear and cool and silver, the tone of both quiet urging and dark foreboding, a composure and collectedness that frightened him, a wisdom that reassured him, a power that he distrusted... Lady Galadriel was a riddle. Yet he still maintained that she did not have the means to give him that, anyway, so it did not much matter what he had thought... or wished.

That. How, Boromir wondered, had she ever managed to take all his deepest desires and turn them into words, sweet and alluring and honey-coated? He could not word it himself, for how does one force one's heart into spoken words? And yet she could do it, with such ease, if the others' accounts were of any accuracy.

She had been cold, she had been condemning, she had been bitter, she had been sorrowful, she had been gentle, she had been trusting, she had been utterly unreadable... And at their farewell, she had been- this was worst of all- full of hope. Hope, and grief. In the deep wells of her memory, Boromir realised now, there were unspeakably sad things as well as beautifully joyous ones, and it took an Elf to balance it and not break their own heart with their memories.

But she had believed- or at least, she had let him believe that _she _believed, in him. She had said that the sons of Gondor _were_ honorable, and he would carry their legacy on unbroken.

He would. That, he did not doubt. Of course he would. How else would he, _could_ he conduct himself? He was Boromir. He was Gondor. So much more than a Ranger, no matter how high his lineage. How could you compare ancestry to a giving your sword, your blood, your _life_ to Gondor? The White City was the name on his lips when he was full of pride, the one he cried out when he was desperate, the image that came to mind when he needed courage. Nothing else had ever given him the sense of satisfaction and pride than the act of defending his city.

Defend his city. It was all he ever wanted!

By any means.

What if those means, he wondered, constituted doing what might be seen as betrayal? It was not, of course, just a few sacrifices for the greater good, but he found that the opinions of those he now called friends mattered to him- so much. He would not have Gimli look at him with anger, or Legolas with distrust. He valued the respect in Gandalf's gaze more than he would admit, and the admiration in Sam's.

And Frodo.

Frodo tried to hide it, and he did surprisingly well, but Boromir could read people. He knew that Frodo could not forget that it was he, Boromir, who had torn him screaming from the scene of Elladan's death, or that it had been he yet again who had kept him from Sam. Frodo was a perfectly rational person, he knew that Boromir only wished him to be safe, that he had been hysterical when he'd seen Sam and might have hurt himself. But it was... an _instinct_, almost, to abhor the person who kept you from the one you loved most in all the world. How well Boromir knew that!

For ten years, he remembered, he'd held a grudge against his old nurse because she wouldn't let him see Faramir when he was sick with some infectious disease.

But all the same, he would hate for the repulse in Frodo's eyes to become real, substantiated.

But- betrayal. Not that it was. Taking the Ring, surely, would be but an act for the whole of Middle-earth. And when the War was won, they would know, and understand, and then he would have their forgiveness. So, in the end, it did not matter. Surely, the loss of the regard of a few people was worth the salvation of the world.

* * *

"You are deep in thought, Master Boromir."

Gandalf looked appraisingly at the Man, trying to weigh his thoughts, for he saw that they wandered down dark paths. Yet there was always a courage and honor burning in the back of those eyes, and he could scarce believe that Boromir would ever do anything to endanger any he saw as friend.

_Ah, but does he see us as friends?_

Galadriel had said that there was darkness in him, a desire that boded ill. Gandalf knew this, and yet he would not want to think that Boromir, being as he was the noble warrior he had shown himself to be, could fall. On the other hand, experience had taught him that anyone could fall... even the smallest of Hobbits, even the greatest of Men.

He sighed as Gollum and Isildur came to mind. They were, he supposed, perfect examples of how anyone, anyone at all, could be seduced by the Ring. Halflings, so small and innocent and the very opposite of power-hungry... and Men, great Men, noble Kings. His eyes rested thoughtfully on Aragorn, in the boat ahead of him, even now making the two Hobbits laugh as he faked an attempt to make Sam row. It was the sort of thing that Boromir used to do, too.

But it had been long since the Man had taken it upon himself to go and joke with the Hobbits, he noted with worry.

"Yes..." Boromir was clearly distracted, and his eyes were also fixed on Aragorn, which bothered Gandalf. He didn't believe that Boromir truly desired the throne so much as to do anything foolish, for he was certainly not the man that Denethor was. Yet he was still his son, and there was dangerous pride and fire in the Gondorian's gaze.

"Boromir?" He let a little warm concern overflow into his voice, hoping that it might prompt the Man to letting certain reserves fall away- which would, as far as Gandalf himself was concerned, would be a perfect opportunity to gain insights on just what was going on in Boromir's head.

"My apologies, Gandalf. I am...troubled. But let it not concern you, for you have larger issues to ponder."

"Ah, you mean which side of the river we shall take!" _Couldn't hurt too much to let him in on what I am thinking, too,_ he thought,_ might prompt him to follow suit_._ On the other hand... I must be careful, for he has made his opinion extremely clear and I do not want him to withdraw. _"Well, my friend, I confess I am much troubled by this." _Actually, I made up my mind the minute Frodo left Hobbiton. _"Our original course is, of course, for Mordor, but Minas Tirith would be... a reasonable option."

Boromir gave him a look of poorly-concealed surprise. "I had thought that you had decided on taking the east bank."

"I have, but until now I am not sure it is the right choice." He was lying through his teeth, but it was for a relatively good cause. "But I do not wish to show uncertainty before the Hobbits, who need all the reassurance they can get."

"That is true," Boromir looked contemplative, but there was an excited gleam in his eye. "But surely, Gandalf, if you would put this question to the Company, they would see reason and find it easy to convince the Hobbits that this is the right way..."

"I did not say that, Boromir. My heart speaks against letting the Ring near anyone more than is necessary. There is a very good reason why our Fellowship is so small, when strength in numbers might, perhaps, offer better protection than a small band of warriors, no matter how exceptional. But come, my friend, I have shared my burden, will you not share yours?"

Boromir blinked, and shifted his gaze, staring out over the waters as he continued rowing, silent. Then he spoke. "My concerns are not of great weight, as of the moment, Gandalf, and there is no need to think on them. I merely fear for my city."

"I am sure Faramir is a more-than-worthy substitute for Gondor's most beloved captain."

"He is, most assuredly! But still, he has never been as strong as I- in a physical sense, you understand. And I fear that Father..." Boromir frowned. "Faramir loves and respects him too much to disobey him... even if his orders are not sound." _And Denethor would punish his younger son severely for arguing, far more so than he would his older. _"In any case, no Man, no matter how noble his heart, can hold back the Shadow."

"It is why we are on this Quest, Boromir."

"True...True. Still, I cannot but worry."

"Understandably."

There was no reply, and they sat the rest of the journey in silence, each contemplating the other.

Boromir was worried for Minas Tirith, definitely, Gandalf thought, studying the Gondorian's proud profile, strongly-cut features and firm jaw. But it was not the only thing weighing on him, and Gandalf feared he knew the other.

His gaze shifted to Frodo. How well he knew the lust for power! It was almost something tangible, festering at the bottom of every being's heart, and Boromir was mistaken if he thought he was alone in his temptation. A glint in Gimli's eye, a look on Legolas's face, a clenching of Aragorn's fist... the other members of the Company were certainly not exempt to the lures of the Ring. He himself least of all.

He sighed, leaning back to watch the river go by, and wonder what each new moment would bring.

* * *

Sam was sitting very, very still, smack in the middle of the boat, and Aragorn was hard pressed not to laugh as he looked at the expression on the Hobbit's face. Frodo showed no such restraint, and laughed out, a clear, beautiful sound.

The latter was stretched out lazily, at complete ease in stark contrast to Sam's stiff posture and anxious hands as he gripped the boat nervously, as if afraid that Aragorn was going to rip his hands off and shove an oar into them.

Certainly not, he thought with amusement. They'd probably capsize, should he do something so foolish.

"Come on, Sam, relax a little. Strider was just joking, you know."

"Of course I know that, Mr. Frodo." Sam didn't move an inch.

"Come lie with me."

"No, thank you, Mr. Frodo."

"Oh, Sam. What shall I do with you?"

"And yet, what would you do without him?" Aragorn murmured. Frodo turned a smile on him, and then a look shining with gratitude at his faithful servant.

"I wouldn't do anything. I wouldn't be here."

"Why, Mr. Frodo! That's rot, sure as I heard any. You could've made it all the way across the world by your own strength, Mr. Frodo, mark my words. But your Sam's here, and he'll follow you anywhere you lead."

A small smile touched Aragorn's lips. He had not heard so sincere an oath in many a year. Frodo reached across to Sam to squeeze his shoulder, a silent gesture of thanks and love. Sam smiled a little.

"Well, master Hobbits, how did you like Lórien?"

"I'm dreadfully sorry to leave the Woods, Mr. Strider, they're wonderfully peaceful, and there're so many trees! But we had better get this over and done with, if you ask me." Aragorn looked at Sam thoughtfully. Peaceful, indeed. Samwise Gamgee was surprisingly perceptive.

If he'd thought so, Frodo knocked Sam right out of view.

"It was beautiful, but dangerous. I'm glad we left, though I did enjoy it."

And he saw understanding, and knowledge in Frodo's eyes, a quiet certainty that seemed somehow out of place on the face of the small Hobbit. Frodo knew... Frodo knew that which was a guarded secret from almost all on Middle-earth.

"Indeed, Frodo. But you were glad for the rest?"

"I was," Frodo replied quietly. "I was in sore need of it."

Aragorn's eyes softened, remembering Frodo's hysterical state by the time they reached the Wood- and he heard Sam. He'd nearly knocked Boromir over in his wild efforts to reach his friend, and though Aragorn _knew_ he was in no condition to be excited like that, and should be calmed down before being allowed to see Sam, there was something in Frodo's raw desperation that touched him, and he resolved that he would not deny Frodo's love of yet another friend, as he had...

He would never forget the sound of Frodo's screams, wild and animalistic and ravaged, echoing through the night as they ran, would never forget the sting of Frodo's sword and the blows of Frodo's hand and the look in Frodo's eyes when he bore him away from that place of blood and glory and death, sacrificing Frodo's very conscience for Middle-earth.

"Strider?" He looked down to see Sam's large, concerned eyes staring at him, and was touched all over again by their easy trust and care for those who were practically strangers. He had not encountered many before who looked at him with that mixture of love, admiration and concern, and those who did he had known for long years. And yet, a Hobbit who had known him for the grand total of a few months managed to care so much, not only for him, but for the whole Fellowship. Their hearts were so generous, so willing to love, anyone and everyone, from gruff Dwarf to distant Elf.

He smiled at the Hobbit, and turned his eyes forward.

They would finish this, if only so that the owners of these hearts could shed their burden.

* * *

Legolas and Gimli were ignoring each other.

This proved a little hard since they were alone together in the boat, each taking one oar, and miscommunications often resulted in a lot of splashing and close shaves with capsizing the boat. But they persisted.

After all, pride- whether Dwarven or Elven- was hard to soothe.

They'd set out from Lórien quite amiably- "Are you sure Dwarfs can actually row?" "If Elves can think, anything is possible."- or at least, relatively amiably.

"Elves can think, which means anything is possible, which means... Gimli, no wonder you actually asked for Lady Galadriel's hair."

Gimli glared darkly at the Elf.

"She is a beautiful, grand lady, and you shall not use her to torment me!"

"I shall not," Legolas agreed with equanimity, slipping from provoking to serious in a moment, as he often did, his moods fluctuating dramatically and seemingly without pattern. "She _is_ a great Elf. Remember Lórien, Gimli, and do not think so badly of Elves."

"I shall not," Gimli nodded, echoing his words. "Although I cannot see how the Lady Galadriel can possibly be of the same race as you."

"It is well within the bounds of reality. Why she chose to give you a token of her, however, is simply incomprehensible to me."

"Ah well, some Elven brains are not of particular quality."

"And all Dwarven brains are not."

After _that_, the boat had been host to a very pointed, obvious silence, punctuated by dark glares from either. But it was Gimli who broke the quiet of mock anger, shifting it to more serious topics.

"And the Elf we left behind?"

"He will heal, Gimli. He will heal...or he will die."

"I knew that."

"Not in the way that you think, Dwarf. Elrohir will die in the last stand that we make against Sauron, or, if we prevail, he will sail. And there in the uttermost West he will learn to live again."

"How can that be? No place, no matter how beautiful, can make up for three thousand years of brotherhood. The look in Elrohir's eyes does not seem to be leaving anytime soon, and somehow I cannot blame him."

"It is different for Elves, Gimli." Legolas replied at last. "It is different across the sea. It is not just beautiful, it is...whole and green and perfect, it is the desire beating in every Elf's heart and the home of every Elf, Sindar, Noldor or otherwise. It is the call of the gulls and the lure of white shores, the sound of soft music and the light of new hope. It _is _healing, in itself. You cannot understand it, Gimli, without being there."

"I should like to see whether it is true, but I suppose it is impossible. But come, perhaps you are right. I hope that you are."

"As do I. It is why we live, Gimli. On the promise, the assurance of fair Valinor. Without the West, half of us would have faded by now. It is one thing for which we envy mortals- how easily they forget, how quickly they pass away to rest forever. Immortality is not a gift...sometimes it is a curse. I say not that you do not have your trials, but your griefs and sorrows do not stay with you forever, do not haunt you centuries later, when you are dust in the soil you have loved and fought for. Across the sea, we may seek something of that peace, that rest. One day."

Gimli watched the Elf's face, animated and full of longing as he spoke of Aman. He could not comprehend it, how simply being could be such agony for immortal creatures, or how fair shores in a place unreachable to mortals could heal all the woes of Arda, but he accepted it.

"Something Aragorn said..." Changing the subject extremely capably, he shifted the topic swiftly to one that sat far more comfortably with both of them. "Of a treasure- He does not strike me as one who lusts after gold or jewels, nor Lady Galadriel one who hoards such items. Would you happen to know of what he spoke?"

"Would you care to share your suspicions?" Legolas accepted the change with a slight smile.

"Well... Before this I would not have thought it possible to think any Elf beautiful, but after seeing the Lady I can well believe it! And surely, one of Lady Galadriel's line would share her beauty and grace... enough, perhaps, to capture the heart of a Man."

"And no mere Man, at that, Master Gimli," Legolas murmured with another enigmatic smile.

"Well?"

"Well?"

"Am I right?"

"Possibly."

"Come, Elf, stop being so taciturn. I have given you a good guess, now confirm it!"

Legolas laughed, but nodded in agreement. "You are right, Master Gimli."

"Tell me of it! For we will row a long time, I fear, and I shall need entertainment."

"I am no minstrel, Dwarf. But I will tell you that his heart is indeed in the keeping of an Elf, one related to the Lady."

"Who is it?"

"Curiosity, my friend, is over-rated."

"Legolas!"

"Lady Arwen."

Gimli choked.

Legolas raised a brow.

"What is it, Gimli?"

"Lord Elrond's daughter!"

"Yes, her."

"But..."

"What did you expect? Close kin to Lady Galadriel...that narrows down the possibilities to her daughter, who married Lord Elrond."

"Well...I thought..." Gimli's face sobered suddenly. "Legolas, saying if we all survive this, what will she do, when he dies?"

"She will die, too."

"But Elves are..."

"Immortal? Not always, Gimli. We can die, all right. Blades and arrows- and axes- find our hearts just as easily as those of you mortals. We can fade, from grief, if we do not seek the West. And as for those who so foolishly and so beautifully give their hearts to mortals... Have you heard the Lay of Leithian?"

"No. And if I had, I would not have understood it, it being in that fanciful language of yours." Legolas snorted at this, but smiled, if a little sadly, and continued.

"The Peredhil, the Half-Elven of Elrond's line, have a choice before they leave the shores of Middle-earth: The choice of Elrond and Elros, the choice of sundering seas. To them is given the grace to choose the life of the Eldar or the Edain, to go to the West or to stay here and live and die. I believe... I believe Arwen has made her choice."

Gimli was silent for a time.

"And... If she stays, her family must leave?"

"They must." Gimli lifted his eyes, resting them on the dark head of the Man in question, two boats in front.

"Well," he whispered finally, "It is one more reason to go on."

Legolas looked at Gimli for a long moment, wordless, and he smiled.

* * *

Golden branches hung from smooth, tall trunks, cradling a shadow as he stood silently in the grass. Dew glinted in the morning light, and the leaves settled gently on his shoulders, weaving a cloak of life and loss as he watched.

Lady Galadriel sang her song, and they drank the cup of farewell. Slowly, the boats glided smoothly across the shining water, each bearing their gift and their memory of beautiful Lórien, and they set off once more, into the wilds, towards the fire and ash and doom of their destiny. _Is it worth nine great souls for Middle-earth?_

The Elf stood alone, tall and sad in the deepening light as his Fellowship drew further from the shore. Sweet refrains reached his ears, songs of heroism and courage and glory and honour, of praise and worship and goodwill towards those they had sent to lay themselves down before Orodruin and drop one tiny golden trinket into the fires to win back good for the free of the world. For those who had given all that they could give so that one small Hobbit bearing one enormous Ring could go on, ever on and on, his road leading unwaveringly towards a great mountain in the darkest of lands, to destroy evil forever...

But that was not his lot now. His offering to the Quest was the one he held closest to his heart, and no more could be wrung from his soul. Promises and farewells, he had gifted upon them, wishes and blessings, because he couldn't save the world anymore and they must do it for him, for only then, only then could he step onto a boat and leave behind sorrow in a world that was healing to go to a world that healed...

The only son of Elrond watched as his friends left for Mordor, and tried to care that he wasn't with them.

_Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,_

_Yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!_

_Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier_

_mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva_

_Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar_

_nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni_

_ómaryo airetári-lírinen._

_Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?_

_An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo_

_ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë_

_ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë;_

_ar sindanóriello caita mornië_

_i falmalinnar imbë met, ar hísië_

_untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë._

_Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!_

_Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar._

_Nail elyë hiryva. Namárië!*_

* * *

_*J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 368. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version._

Please review!


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

I realised something: I have totally forgotten the disclaimers for 9 whole chapters. I am so sorry! I honestly did not mean any disrespect whatsoever towards Tolkien or Jackson and I hold the utmost reverence for these people who created this art. I have added them to each chapter, but if there is any in which one is missing, please do not hesitate to tell me!

Well, enjoy :)

Note: This chapter has a lot of paragraph breaks, because it switches POV a lot, so it might be a little hard to follow. If you think this is bad, please tell me!

* * *

_January 26th, T.A. 3019_

_When they had eaten, Aragorn called the Company together. `The day has come at last,' he said: 'the day of choice which we have long delayed. What shall now become of our Company that has travelled so far in fellowship? Shall we turn west with Boromir and go to the wars of Gondor; or turn east to the Fear and Shadow; or shall we break our fellowship and go this way and that as each may choose? Whatever we do must be done soon. We cannot long halt here. The enemy is on the eastern shore, we know; but I fear that the Orcs may already be on this side of the water.'*_

Frodo drew a shuddering breath and tried to avoid everyone's eyes. They would watch him, hard though some of them tried not to stare at him, and he could not blame them. He was the bearer, like it or not, and his word carried weight...

He could see the loyalty in each one's eyes, and realised with a deep, sick feeling, that most of them would follow him wherever he lead. If where he lead happened to be into the fires of Mount Doom, then so be it.

But how could he let them troop after him into death and doom, walking towards the blackest place in Middle-earth with eyes wide open and swords laid down before him? It was unthinkable, and he would not do that to them, could not do that to them. Loyalty didn't _deserve_ to be repaid with death. But when the other option was a city full of Men...

He had seen the way Boromir's eyes rested eagerly, hungrily almost, on the chain he bore. How much worse would it be in his city? He did not want to distrust Boromir- the Man who ruffled his hair and swung Sam high in the air and quietly slipped them food when he saw their large eyes and tired faces, but found it all too easy to doubt Boromir, this stranger who looked at him with cold, calculating eyes and watched him all the time.

He choked back a sigh and stood, walking away without a word. He felt the stares of each and every Fellowship member burning into his back, but did not turn. There were some things that could not be shared, some hurts that no one could understand, some burdens that came with carrying the doom of Middle-earth around your neck. He sighed, reaching a clearing and sliding to the ground against a tree.

_What should he do?_

_What __could_ he do? It seemed that he now stood before a crossroads of sorts, but each road lead to destruction and horror and who was he to judge which was the lesser of many evils?

_The Ring-bearer._

It was who he was, now. Much as he wished he'd never heard of Rings or Dark Lords or Mount Doom, he could not turn back time and become once again the quiet, innocent Hobbit with cheerful eyes and eager heart. Trials and time had changed him, and there was no going back.

_Where now should he go?_

Where?

_What should he do?_

He choked back a sob and pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, wishing the burning ache would recede. Too many late nights, too much heartache... For what was there to do, but to steel himself and gather all the courage he could find in himself and _go?_ No matter how very, very frightened he was, no matter that he was all of three feet four inches against dark creatures enough to frighten great Elf lords and wizards, no matter because all that paled in comparison to what would happen if he just hurled the Ring as hard as possible as far away as he could, though would he even be able to do that? Oh, he'd felt its call, its tug, the moments when his thoughts somehow lead him to fantasising about Hobbits ruling the world and taking power and overthrowing Gandalf, _his friend,_ as leader of the Company... It was so very hard not to fall to the Ring.

And that was why he must destroy it.

He must, of course he must. He shook his head in frustration. He'd known this from the moment he stepped out of Bag End. No, what he must figure out was who to bring with him... and how to deter those he would _not _bring along.

He was deluding himself if he thought he could actually do anything to stop them. They were, after all, all either trained warriors, ridiculously loyal to him, or both. No, Frodo Baggins didn't stand a chance against six very determined friends.

_Friends._ That was it exactly. He would not lead friends to their death, not after he'd already caused one death and broke one heart. Not again. He could _not_ live with the crushing guilt of more blood on his already bitterly stained hands, not for the salvation of the whole world.

_What he must do._

Frodo drew a deep breath, and suddenly a light was in his eyes.

* * *

He was finding Frodo. That was all there was to it, _it must be_, for Gods above he would not admit to anything more, _how could he_ and pride and honour and nobility and where have they gone? He gasped for breath, a raw broken sound that ricocheted sharply in the sudden silence of the forest. _Frodo..._

He stumbled to a halt, frowning. What was he...? Frodo, yes. He must find Frodo. But why? To bring him back so they could decide, of course. But Frodo would follow Gandalf and the accursed wizard would never side with him, though for long years it was Gondor, Gondor's pride and Gondor's blood and Gondor's men and Gondor's _captain_ who held the enemy at bay, while the so-called Wise sat in their towers and discussed and watched as Men fought and _died _for them and it was all for naught, all for nothing because of one foolish Hobbit-

Ah, but a wonderful, gentle Hobbit. Boromir pulled himself up sharply, struck by a sudden vision of Frodo, laughing, sunlight catching in his dark hair and pure mirth in his clear laugh. The Halfling could not be that bad, no. But that wizard... Boromir ground his teeth. Oh, he might pretend to be concerned, but in the end it was Isildur's Heir who mattered; not Denethor's son, even though it was the son of the Steward who had lived and fought for Gondor, but what did that matter to them?

A cadence of brilliance and blinding light, and suddenly he saw Minas Tirith, white and glorious, and he was standing before its doors as the trumpets sounded in triumph undimmed and he raised a hand and saw the glimmer of gold-

_It is here. It is here. You are here- A chance, Boromir! For a life and power beyond all this, for something greater. _

Leaves crackled wildly beneath pounding feet, but he found he did not care. Frodo _Frodo he must find Frodo_ and what Frodo bore and perhaps it would be best...

He found the Hobbit slumped by a tree, alone, and for one precious moment of clarity he saw a Hobbit in far over his head, quiet and determined and frightened and so, so brave, and a smile touched his lips.

Then Frodo turned, and he saw It, and everything flew from his head.

* * *

Boromir.

Please, Frodo begged whatever god might possibly be listening, please, not he. Not Boromir. Not the brave soldier. Not my friend. Don't let him...

_`I was afraid for you, Frodo,' he said, coming forward. `If Aragorn is right and Orcs are near, then none of us should wander alone, and you least of all: so much depends on you. And my heart too is heavy. May I stay now and talk for a while, since I have found you? It would comfort me. Where there are so many, all speech becomes a debate without end. But two together may perhaps find wisdom.'_

_`You are kind,' answered Frodo. 'But I do not think that any speech will help me. For I know what I should do, but I am afraid of doing it, Boromir: afraid.'**_

A certain gleam came into his eye, and something died in Frodo.

* * *

Kind- Oh, yes, Hobbit, far more so than you imagine. Come, Frodo, it will be best, it _will _be best, for everyone. Shed your burden...

"Afraid? And rightly so! For who would willingly stand before Mordor? But Frodo! I offer you a way out."

_Time paused._

_

* * *

_Frodo choked.

* * *

And he saw it, he saw _It,_ and stared, enamoured by its glint and its allure and its promises, for Gondor could be great again.

* * *

"Frodo," that odd threatening note blending with Boromir's customary kindness, "come, do not struggle. This will be for the best," naked fear, "After all, you are but a Hobbit. Go back to your green Shire. Gondor has need of the Ring."

_Madness._

_

* * *

_It is true, it is so true, Gondor needs it, Gondor must have it, by any means, any at all. If Frodo must be this way-

* * *

Frodo screamed.

* * *

_-Screamed_, and it awoke every protective instinct Boromir ever had. Faramir screamed just like that, and for one second he wavered between good and evil, light and dark, loyalty and the Ring...

_For the best._

Loyalty never stood a chance.

* * *

"They've been away too long, Gandalf!"

Sam's voice was taut and angry and rebellious as few had ever heard him, and his tone shook each and every member there.

"I know my master best, and I know what's wrong with him. Can't you see it? He's upset, and got a right to be, but most of all because he's got to go, now, but you all insist on being there and hounding his every move!" Sam was on his feet, strange light burning in his eyes. And this was not Sam as they knew him what was this place doing to him to all of them- "And now you won't let me go to him, when he needs me! When will you understand that Mr. Frodo needs his Sam, more than any of your wise talk, so just let me-"

"Mithrandir!"

Everyone swung to look at Aragorn, for his voice spoke of darkness and his eyes were trained on the space where someone should have been...

"Boromir," he whispered, and the world spun sideways.

* * *

Frodo fell back, and vaguely noted that his back was going to punish him for this many times over. _If I'm alive for that._ Boromir lunged at him again, and threw himself sideways. There was hunger, desire, crazed need in the Man's eyes, and he was so scared and he wished Sam was here and he screamed again...

* * *

Frodo's voice. Frodo's scream.

The world, not satisfied with being sideways, threw itself into the most ridiculous positions and the very ground rocked beneath their feet.

A beat.

And then they ran.

* * *

No more _No more _ Just to touch it feel it know it _for the best_ and own it be the Master _the best the best _

_ Scream. _Hobbit screamed. Bare hot skin. Liquid on fingernails raking flesh. _Touched it _digging into his arm or was it his shoulder _Frodo_

_ Boromir_

_ But who are you_

_

* * *

_Aragorn was following Sam.

It wasn't very hard, and at the same time the hardest thing he'd done in all his life. The Hobbit was running, wildly and shrieking Frodo's name every two steps with a sort of animalistic consistency, tear-streaked and desperate and so, so certain. Sam knew where Frodo was.

How, he could not fathom, but he did.

When they burst in on a Man they thought was friend pinning a Hobbit they'd spent a month protecting, he almost wished he didn't.

* * *

The world was a blur.

No wonder, he thought dizzily, as Boromir swung him and smashed him against a tree.

He heard twin cries of his name in different voices, and then he was falling, falling.

* * *

It was Frodo, his Mr. Frodo and Sam didn't know what was going on or what was wrong with him to shout at Mr. Gandalf or what was so very wrong about this place but he knew his Master was here and that was enough.

* * *

This wasn't enough. The touch, he'd been so so close. _For the-_

_

* * *

_Aragorn was aware of the faintest bitter taste on his lips before Boromir lunged at him, and then he was caught in a fight for his life.

* * *

Somewhere he knew that this was his _King_ he fought but the bigger part didn't care.

* * *

Boromir's fist smashed into his jaw and sent him reeling, black dots dancing on the edge of his consciousness as another blow struck his head against a rough tree trunk and fireworks began to play across his vision. Then an ugly knife dug into his shoulder and suddenly he reacted with instincts honed by hard experience and threw Boromir off him. He spun, heard Sam's and Frodo's cries, but he had not time to pay attention to that now.

* * *

Then he heard it, the crashing of heavy boots on undergrowth and he shuddered.

_Enemy._

They were the enemy, weren't they? Wasn't this Man he was doing his utmost to kill?

_Orc. Enemy. Man. Friend._

What had he _done-_

_Orc-!_

And then he understood and he saw the word forming on the other Man's lips but he got there first.

* * *

"_Run!_"

Aragorn threw Boromir an incredulous look, for why on earth would he tell the Hobbits he'd just tried to kill to run from enemies? But then he saw something now that made his heart beat faster. A look in Boromir's eyes, a set in his jaw, a lift of his head- This was noble Boromir, strong Boromir, courageous Boromir.

Then they were upon them and everything went into a whirl of blades and blood.

* * *

He was calmer now, settling into the familiar deadly dance of threatening grace, sword wielded with a natural ease that came from years of training and an instinctive aptitude for war. Whirl, spin, thrust, parry...

A small sense of unease began to settle in. These were not mere orcs, they were stronger, they were bigger, they were darker...

He stopped still in the middle of one attack, and paid dearly for it. But as Aragorn cried out and covered him, yelling his name with an urgency born of desperation, he could not move, could not feel it, as the memory of the last few minutes sank into his suddenly clear mind.

_He had-_ Stab block_- __tried_- slice uppercut_- __to kill-_ duck_- _

_-Frodo._

* * *

Sam and Frodo were cowering, hands pressed against each other, in the hollow of a dead tree. It was, perhaps, not exactly the best form of cover available, but it was the nearest, and therefore the only one they dared to go to.

They were scared- scared beyond anything they had ever felt in their comparably short lives, but somehow not quite so scared as they might have imagined. Maybe because legions of orcs were nothing compared to a Balrog and a betrayal, and Sam had always, always followed Frodo...

"Go, Mr. Frodo!"

...Except for now.

It was, in all senses of the word, logical. And practical and for the greater good and beneficial to the entire world. But Frodo didn't particularly care about the whole world right now, he cared about Sam, his friend, his keeper- and he could not desert him.

But Sam had an odd look on his face, as if sudden revelation had enlightened him to some brilliant fact, or perhaps it was simply courage ennobling the innocent face of Samwise Gamgee. It was the sort of look that knows it is right, and that it will get its way. It was the sort of look Frodo had always imagined would appear on the faces of martyrs right before they sacrificed themselves... It was a look that Frodo did not like at all.

Nor did he like it any more when he found himself running down the hill towards the boats as if all the forces of Mordor were behind him, and not his dearest friend in all the world.

* * *

The orcs- big orcs?- big orcs were thinning now, and the hard band that came with fighting only for survival began to loosen. He heard a fair Elvish voice crying ugly battlecries, and a guttural Dwarven voice echoing them, heard a high shrill scream- _Ilúvatar no, Sam!- _

Then an Elf and a Dwarf flew into the clearing, bow and axe lifted, and his heart lifted unconsciously, for they were there, back to back and side to side, as if they'd never been anything less than brothers.

* * *

Legolas was angry. He was so, so angry, and his fury set him on fire, a sight to behold as his knifes whirled with frightening ease and a savage pleasure painting his face as he fought. It was something beautiful, yet bitterly ugly, a warrior in his element, for what place did kindness have on the battlefield?

Elves were something different altogether from other races. There was deep inside the Firstborn an ability to grow, to change, to morph into a creature great and terrible, beyond anything the orcs had ever had the misfortune to meet in battle and illuminated with a majesty and power of ancient times... It was emotion, it was passion, it was utterly being in a way that others could never understand, and that day the prince of Mirkwood pulled up the parts of him which were most inhuman and displayed them with fierce pride for the world to see.

Legolas was angry. At who, he was not quite sure yet. Boromir, certainly. Sam? Perhaps. Frodo... probably. Gimli and Aragorn? In a strange, twisted way. Mithrandir? Oh, yes. Extremely. The logical part of his brain told him that the wizard had tried his best and to be honest, without him they would not have even made it thus far, but some instinct deep inside him blamed their current predicament on their leader. He spun and let a foolish orc run straight into his arrow, a small smirk twisting his lips with feral grace. This was a time for killing.

He heard, with a calmness that came of detachment which came of thousands of years of doing this exact thing, the cries and grunts and groans of his companions, but it was not until a scream rang through the trees that he was pulled into alert consciousness, and his whole existence narrowed to a single purpose.

_Frodo._

_

* * *

_Sam stood all alone before orcs twice his size, and he drew his small sword.

* * *

Boromir was trying his best not to lose his cool, but it was a considerable challenge.

Firstly, he was in the middle of an utterly unorganised, painfully unprepared battle with frighteningly large, strong orcs, who happened to be rather intelligent too once you thought about it. Secondly, he's just realised that he'd nearly ripped the Hobbit he set out to protect apart. And to top it all off, as if the Gods would like to send him one final convincing proof that they loathed him with a deep and unrivalled intensity, he'd just heard a scream that sounded chillingly like Sam.

Actually, forget that. Or crumple it up into a small ball and throw it as far away from him as humanly possible. It _was_ Sam, and hot fear was gliding serenely through his veins.

He realised that this was a bit of a contradiction, but really, over his years as a soldier, he had come to realise that fear was in actual fact a rather relaxed emotion, just that this feeling did not transfer to the person it was inhabiting. Fear appeared to take great pleasure in casually sailing through your heart and setting in beating in stuttering staccatos at a ridiculous pace, in fact.

Or, of course, there was always the possibility that he was going completely mad and was hallucinating.

But he had not time to worry about that now. He raised his sword with a cry that froze the blood of all creatures of evil there, for the Steward's son had awoken- and betrayal or no betrayal, he would make them pay.

* * *

Aragorn decided that whoever had taken it upon themselves to suggest camping on Amon Hen, they should go and throw themselves off a cliff.

Oh, and along with that whoever who decided to grow an orc- and its brain- and multiply that by about a hundred, whoever who had made them lose their concentration, whoever who started all this in the first place, whoever decided to do something utterly stupid in starting a fight which all but screamed for someone to come and attack them, whoever didn't stop them, and the rest of the world might as well troop along to join the merry gang.

He threw cursory glances around the clearing, which was slowly, but surely draining of orcs. Legolas was at the other side, perched elegantly on an extremely thin branch and watching with a sort of amusement as orcs threw themselves at the unattainably high Elf, who was enjoying himself immensely and smiling the sort of superior smile that instantly awoke the raging desire to strangle him with your bare hands. It was certainly working on the orcs, he noted with a small smirk, as he spun and gutted yet another one, for they all seemed to have suddenly decided that the sole purpose of their existence was to get their hands on the annoying Elf and kill him as slowly and painfully as possible.

Gimli was on the other side of the equation- namely, he was the one looking as though he would like to kill someone as slowly and as painfully as humanly- or Dwarf-ly- possible. His face was red, not with exertion but with anger, for those who hurt a Dwarf's friends regretted it in their last breaths. Aragorn found himself quailing before that glare, so fiery and intense was it, carrying with it the unwavering flame that was Gimli's courage.

That was two accounted for. Frodo and Sam he hoped with all his heart were far, far away by now, though he somehow doubted it. After all, today was not a day that anyone seemed particularly inspired with intelligence.

He would not even presume to wonder where Mithrandir was, and he was not overly worried for him. After all, any orc who dared to approach a Maia, let alone attack one, deserved what was coming, namely a big scare and then death.

And...

He scanned the trees, hoping against hope for a glimpse of the Man he did not quite know how to feel about anymore. Traitor? But he had fought so strongly, so passionately, had been so stubbornly proud and defiant and determined to protect. But the look in his eyes as he swung Frodo through the air, the sickening certainty that he would kill their Ring-bearer and there was nothing he could do about it...

He was not there.

Oh Valar.

Sometimes, he really thought they had some secret agenda against him and everyone remotely associated with him. Swallowing, he glanced piercingly around again, but for naught: Boromir was not there. _This is the second time he disappears,_ he thought rather wearily. _It does not bode well. And if the Valar have a single shred of mercy in them, let it not be the same thing repeated._

A bugle, clear and sweet and strong. A call for help.

_It appears they don't._

_

* * *

_Sam was very, very muddled.

Boromir had hurt his master- he was sure about that. Unless his eyes had failed him utterly, he _had_ seen Boromir practically throwing Mr. Frodo through the air, which was enough to earn the Man Sam's eternal animosity.

But then he'd come crashing through the trees to throw _himself_ between Sam and the orcs, and everything had spun wildly into a chaos of shrieks and clashes.

Boromir- who had smiled and laughed and joked with them. Who had very nearly killed his master and scared him to death. Who was currently giving his all to protect him. And there were probably around a thousand orcs- or so it seemed to Sam- all of whom appeared to want very much to get their hands on his neck. He stumbled backwards and stared as Boromir blocked three strikes in a blinding flash of metal.

_Why _was the world so confusing?

* * *

Frodo stood alone by the riverside, one hand pressed and clenched at his neck, a silhouette framed against this day of blood. A Hobbit who was so very small, so very stubborn, and so very scared, who wanted nothing more to fling the Ring into the river right in front of him and run far, far away-

But he was no fool, and he knew he could not. Not only for his duty, for Middle-earth, but because nothing but Orodruin would pry his hand from the Ring now. And perhaps not even that...

There was, in the end, nothing for it. No other choice but the one he took, no other way but the path laid before his feet. The Ring-bearer must set off alone into the wildwood of the road to Mordor and Mount Doom, a trail littered with corpses and temptation and an all-consuming fear...

_"_Frodo."

He took a deep breath, shut his eyes and prayed to whoever might be listening with all his rapidly beating heart, though whoever it was certainly didn't seem to like him much, and he turn to face the maker of fireworks, one of the Wise, his friend and protector.

* * *

*J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 387. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.

Please review!


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

* * *

_February 26th, T.A. 3019_

Boromir was currently just as confused as Sam- at least judging by the look on his face. He threw himself to the ground to avoid being skewered by a very nasty-looking spear, and decided rather decisively that battles were not very good places for reflection. Or for figuring out who you were and what you had done in the last few minutes.

There were more- always more. Something stirred in his heart, for he began to understand that there always would be more, in Gondor and in Rohan and in every part of this forsaken world, and yet maybe there was still hope... Hope balanced on a Ring on a Hobbit's neck.

He choked on temptation as lust began to burn in his veins, and shuddered, pushing all passion and anger and regret and bitterness into every sword stroke, slicing down orcs like some sort of bizarre plow. He sighed to himself at the analogy- clearly, his mind wasn't working very well. On the other hand, who could blame it? He had currently just attacked Frodo, saved Frodo, and subsequently managed to somehow maneuver the situation in so pathetic a way such that he ended up stranded with a brave and well-meaning but not very effective Hobbit in a clearing at least a mile from the others.

He sighed. Running had, at first, seemed an appealing option- most people were inclined to think so when hordes of dark creatures were advancing on you. But in the end, it meant more distance between them and their friends, which could not- yank Sam out of the way and sink a dagger in the orc- be good.

He hesitated a while over his next move- or at least, hesitated as well as someone who was in the middle of a heated fight could hesitate- before deciding that if desperate times called for desperate measures, then now ought to be a time for the most reckless, daring, utterly ridiculous actions of all.

The first move was to hurl a shield in the first approaching orc's face.

He'd never known that an orc could look that surprised before, but he didn't waste time wondering over it. In one swift movement, he snatched his horn from his belt and lifted it to his lips, and blew.

* * *

Gimli decided that the next time he felt like taking on an absurd quest into the most dangerous place in Middle-earth with the most stupid, annoying, decidedly unintelligent creatures the world had to offer, he would seriously reconsider.

He was right now trying to keep up with the train of thought of an Elf and a Man mid-battle, which to say the least, was hard. And confusing. He had absolutely no idea what had happened, but Aragorn's eyes had swiftly scanned the area, and clearly not pleased with what he saw for some incomprehensible reason, had called to Legolas- while fighting off three very tall orcs.

That, in itself, was fine, really. If the Man truly wanted to kill himself, Gimli was certainly not going to stand in his way. What topped it off was that he was speaking in _Elvish._

_That_ was the furthest thing from fine Gimli could imagine. Firstly, it infuriated the orcs- and secondly, he couldn't understand it, and therefore had not the slightest idea what happened when Legolas' face paled and his eyes darted round, too, before replying to Aragorn while shooting five orcs in quick succession, looking as if he was relaxing on a picnic.

In Elvish, of course.

And now both of them were going at it with new fire, pushed by some unknown factor into fighting, not merely to live anymore but to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Gimli gritted his teeth and brought his axe down in one mighty swing, splitting an orc down the middle, and smiled a grim smile at the spurt of blood. He was no bloodthirsty cannibal, but he could not deny the bloodlust that filled him at the sound of battlecries and the clash of blades, and he, now that they were not really in danger of dying, was beginning to enjoy himself, even if there were such strange and impossible beings around.

They were now obviously fighting their way towards each other, and with a grunt of obvious frustration Gimli followed their example, deciding that he would just copy them for now and strangle them later.

Meanwhile, though the numbers of orcs were waning, their desire to kill him was not, and he found himself splashing blood everywhere in a rather morbid way as his axe struck down orc after orc, when the sound of a clear horn rung through the air, and suddenly he understood everything.

* * *

Sam was stumbling backwards in blind fear, pressing himself against a tree and making an- admittedly not very successful- attempt to blend into the bark. Before him, Boromir was getting overwhelmed, and even while his mind was screaming at him to stop being a coward and grab his sword and go _help,_ but the deepest, most instinctive part of him, the part called _survival_, held him back with bands of iron and fear and he _couldn't move-_

And all around him the chaos of battle was descending into utter madness. There was the constant, urgent undertone of Boromir's horn, blowing regularly and with a certain desperate clockwork precision, punctuated with the random shrieks and groans that came of Boromir's sword, but he couldn't _do_ anything.

And then out of nowhere a black-feathered arrow flew- straight and true- and hit his protector.

Boromir's face paled, as his body jerked with the impact of the projectile, and Sam heard a distant scream and absently noted that it came from him, but he couldn't think of anything but the Man before him, lips bitten till he tasted blood on his tongue, as Boromir blinked, swallowed- and rose again, a cry on his lips and sword in hand.

Gritting his teeth with an expression that made several approaching orcs think again, so fearsome was it on the face of one so small, Sam raised his sword again with an effort, and stepped forward, suddenly imbued with the trademark stubbornness of Hobbits. These orcs would pay for hurting Mr. Boromir! He might have been considering that himself, after seeing what the Man did to his master, but no one was going to punish Boromir for such treatment of Mr. Frodo but _him. _

* * *

Legolas' knives were whirling now, and no hint of amusement softened his hard features. He had no more time to humour these creatures, and they would soon know that, as one after another they died on his blades, their last sight of the world the burning eyes of an Elf.

He was afraid- bitingly so, and it irked him. He disliked being afraid. It was too... vulnerable, it made him too easily broken. But how did one guard against fear when it might well be that even as they fought to go to the Ring-bearer's aid, the Ring was being wrested from his grip, and there was nothing they could do?

He cursed himself again for not speaking out earlier against Boromir- he'd _known_ the Man was harbouring dark dreams! But he'd let friendship and hope for honour overpower logic and practicality, and now Frodo would pay for his oversight.

_No. _He swallowed and lifted his head high, sudden pride in his bearing. _He will not, not while I draw breath to prevent it._

* * *

The world was quiet, disturbingly quiet when they both knew a bitter battle was being fought not too far away. The river brought serenity, it always had, but Gandalf could not help but to see, suddenly in his mind, the river where the Ring had once rested, the river that took the Ring from Isildur and gave it to Gollum...

He knelt before Frodo, looking deep into those frightened eyes, and felt his heart twist again. The little one was so disconcertingly fragile, as if the slightest knock would break him to pieces, and yet Gandalf knew well how strong the core of these Halflings were. _Frodo._

He would leave, of course. All the better. He must do it, sooner or later...for no one could resist the Ring indefinitely, not even himself- or maybe especially himself. Frodo must go alone, with no one by his side to eye the Ring and weave plans of betrayal in their hearts, as one already had done. Who would be next? Gandalf did not want to find out, and he was sure Frodo didn't, either.

But there was still the business of going.

"Gandalf?"

Looking to him for guidance, for wisdom, for advice, as always. But Frodo must learn, today, to make his own decisions.

"What will you do?" He disliked the harsh tone he was using, but it was necessary. Frodo looked a little surprised and disappointed, but mostly scared.

"I don't know."

"You _must_ know. You agreed to know when you said those words and took the Ring."

Frodo bowed his head, and slowly, slowly, unfolded his fingers to reveal one band of gold.

So easy. It would be so easy.

But it would not be _right, _and it there was one thing Gandalf had been chasing all these years, it was the right thing. He'd passed this test long ago.

"No, Frodo. You cannot run, now." He took the Hobbit's free hand, pressing it hard, crushing it in sheer intensity. "Feel this? It is what will happen to your mind, the further you go, the closer you get. But you must bear it. You must bear it. For me, and for your Sam and for the Fellowship and for Bilbo and for the Shire and for Middle-earth. There is no other choice."

One single glistening tear slid down Frodo's cheek, and Gandalf shuddered at what he had said. But what else was there to do?

He drew Frodo into a last embrace, then stepped back.

"Go."

He watched, silently, as the Ring-bearer pulled one of the boats out- with a lot of huffing and puffing- but he offered no assistance, and said nothing. Only when Frodo was in the boat, on the river, oar in hand, when he turned to look at Gandalf, a look pleading for one more smile, only then did Gandalf's face soften, and he gave Frodo a look full of gentle pride.

It was enough. Resolution filled the small face, and Frodo turned to go.

_Alone._

* * *

Boromir was panicking.

He was well aware of the fact that this was not the ideal reaction to a battle, especially when he'd seen far too many of those to be overly worried over one more, but this was different. This was ridiculous. This was two against dozens. Or rather one and a half against dozens. He did not want to demean Sam's efforts- and they certainly were praiseworthy for one so small- but it remained that they weren't helping much.

Oh, and of course, if he'd forgotten to mention, he had an arrow sticking out of his chest.

Dark humour was starting to take over his mind, he noted thoughtfully, and a cynical little voice murmured, _what did you expect?_ He choked back a groan as he ducked to avoid a blow, severely aggravating the already painful wound. He threw a few looks around him, but he'd been hoping for a bit of good news, he was disappointed. There seemed to be more orcs than ever, all of them plowing straight through their fellows' corpses towards him.

And- standing a little ways off, bow drawn, evil smirk on face...

He had just the time to make sure that the arrow hit his shoulder, not his heart.

* * *

Aragorn was contemplating the rather interesting phenomenon of how the pain of numerous injuries could fade to nothing before the deep, terrible, all-encompassing fear that gripped him. He would prefer physical pain- he knew how to deal with that. The knife to his shoulder had been deep, but nothing new, really. The chance bruises and scrapes and the sharp ache in his right wrist that heralded a break- or at the very least a bad sprain- had forced him to switch his sword to his left hand... nothing.

But fear was something no one could combat.

He was fighting, fighting with a great, steady-burning stubbornness that sprang from the knowing conviction that he was needed elsewhere- and mere _orcs _would not detain him. Not when Frodo and Sam needed his sword. Valar, no he would not fail them...

But he was not fast enough. His enemies were falling, but _not fast enough_. Legolas' knives and Gimli's axe were striking down ranks after ranks of orcs with frightening ease and swiftness, and his own sword was not to be disregarded, but it was not enough. They would be able to go to Frodo soon, but he needed them _now._

He prayed again that the Hobbits had had the sense to run as far as their legs would take them, but how far would that be, with orcs on their tail? Boromir's horn sounded again, fainter and shorter, as if the blower was out of breath and time.

Giving up all pretense of caution, he threw prudence to the wind and switched to the sort of desperate, reckless fighting he usually reserved for times when it was fight like this or die. Frowning, he realised this was the second time in less than two hours he'd had to fight like that- the other with Boromir, but he did not want to think of that. His life was growing increasingly dangerous, he thought, before he lifted his sword and let his fire devour the orcs.

* * *

The third time it happened, Boromir decided that he was going to find whoever thought up the saying third time lucky and strangle them. That, of course, was after he regained to ability to form coherent thought in the breathtaking aftermath of white hot pain that turned his world to dancing stars. But he forced his eyes open. He must do this, just until the others arrived, for Sam's safety was his to guard...

But it was so hard.

So hard to breathe and move and fight.

* * *

Finally- finally they had broken the orcs, and they could run, fleet-footed by sheer necessity. Legolas was flying, Gimli thought, or at least the closest that one could possibly get to it while still on the ground. Aragorn was close behind, moving with disconcerting silence- mortals were not _supposed_ to be that stealthy- and he was trying his best.

He wasn't deluding himself by any means, and he had not wish to slow them down- not now. Now was not the time for Dwarven pride to rear its head. Now he must give over the lead to an Elf and hope that he wouldn't regret it...

"Go," He ordered between gasps. "Do not wait for me! Go!"

They did. He followed.

* * *

When Sam was swept up by a rough hand, he hadn't the presence of mind to be frightened. He was just surprised.

Somehow, he'd had the image of all the Big People of the Fellowship- Gimli included- as invincible warriors. He had not seen Elladan fall, as Frodo had. He simply could not picture any of them failing in battle, crashing to the ground in stark defeat as Boromir was now. Or no, he thought, it was not defeat. It was valiance it its uttermost form, for even now with three very obvious arrows in stuck in him, Boromir was struggling to rise, to protect him...

In that moment, Sam did something extremely novel. It was something that only Boromir would ever have the honour of experiencing. He forgave the Man what he had done to Mr. Frodo, for the courage he could see pulsing in Boromir's eyes and for the love, too.

As the orc holding him fast began to run, he turned his tear-and-blood-streaked, dirty face to the Man kneeling in the clearing and called three words of forgiveness.

* * *

When Aragorn stumbled into the clearing to see Boromir, arrow-riddled and still, and nothing else, all the pain of the wounds he had ignored seemed to come back and channel their efforts singularly to his heart.

He dropped to his knees at Boromir's side, desperately searching the Man's face for signs of consciousness. Boromir stirred, and he was vaguely aware of Legolas loping around the clearing and, a few seconds later, Gimli's very loud arrival.

But it all disappeared before the Man lying before him, and Sauron himself could have appeared and he wouldn't have cared. His hand strayed to the arrows even as common sense told him there was no way anyone could survive this, and the healer in him confirmed this. There was no hope for Boromir, not anymore. He would never see his city again, white and shining in the sun...

His hand was clutched convulsively, desperate words dropping from Boromir's lips, of Sam and Frodo and apology and goodwill and kings but in the end none of it mattered when bright eyes faded to nothing.

And somewhere far in the distance he heard a sad song: _How and why, how and why- Farewell, son of Gondor!_

* * *

When Gandalf stepped through the trees, he was somehow not very surprised at the scene before him, though his heart twisted within him.

Legolas stood, still and unmoving as a statue, grief etched on the ancient face as clear eyes stared into the distance in a direction that looked disturbingly like West. Gimli was pacing unceasingly with increasing anger tempered with sorrow. Aragorn knelt by Boromir's side, utterly unmoving, eyes fixed on the Man's pale face that was bereft of life. It was not terribly encouraging.

He drew in a deep breath and sighed. Legolas started violently and spun to him, taut as a bowstring, quivering with tension, and he winced. How far away had the Elf been to miss the obvious warning signs of his approach? Gimli stopped pacing and turned to stare at him, emotionless. Aragorn did not move.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, and he was hit with the sudden stupid impulse to laugh hysterically at the situation they found themselves in. No one could think of anything to say- what was there to say?

_Sam._

He realised, and then cursed himself for not seeing it earlier. But had he been killed... or taken?

"Sam?" His voice broke the unnatural silence, and Legolas blinked as if released from a spell, before answering quietly.

"Boromir said the orcs took him. Where is Frodo?"

"He is gone."

Legolas froze, and Gimli uttered a sort of strangled noise. Aragorn lifted his head suddenly, and Gandalf sighed at his own wording. It was, after all, not the best idea to phrase 'left for Mordor' as 'gone' on a day of such bloodshed.

"Not dead. He has left to finish this by himself. It is the only way." This was met with various reactions, the most interesting of which was a very loud snort that came from Gimli, followed by equally loud objections. Legolas just looked at him in a way that clearly conveyed his horror, but Aragorn looked surprisingly calm. Perhaps he did understand why Frodo must leave- or perhaps grief was numbing him to reality, which was not a pleasant thought. Gandalf decided to ignore it for now and focus on Gimli.

"The only way! Yes, the only way to get himself killed! Gandalf, the road to Mordor is no Hobbit walking trail! How do you expect one small Hobbit to get through the Emyn Muil, let alone go across Gorgoroth? It will be a miracle if he survives to see the Black Gate! Have you taken leave of your sense, that you send him to his death?"

Gandalf frowned, his patience reaching its end. He was tired, aching, grieving, and none too happy about sending off a Hobbit he loved alone to Mordor, and he was not in the mood to be accused of things he feared he might be doing, least of all from one of those he sought to lead and guide. He snapped.

"Gimli, son of Glóin, think you that I do this thoughtlessly? Do not speak recklessly, or you may rue it bitterly. I am no fool or dotard, and I understand the nature of Frodo's quest better than any save he himself, perhaps. Seek not to correct me on this, for you have not seen the truth of the Enemy's machinations! This is the best way: There can be no contest."

Gimli looked as if he would retaliate for a moment, then he subsided, bowing his head. "I spoke out of turn, Gandalf. I apologise for my lack of control."

Gandalf shook his head, recognising his own loss of control. It did not bode well. He must keep himself in check, he reflected darkly, or his choices would be rash when he most needed them to be right. His eyes must be clear of strong emotion for his judgment to be accurate- and he would need it to be so. The whole world needed it to be so.

But now he had more pressing concerns, namely the dead Man lying there.

He approached quietly, suddenly out of words. What words were there, really, before death? The stolen breath and life and future of a being that could have gone home to family could offer no explanation, no consolation for those left behind. All they could do was all they'd always done... mourn, and move on.

Now they must speed up the mourning and get on with the moving part, Gandalf realised with a pang of sadness for the dark times and the lack of honour well-deserved this son of Gondor would get, no matter what he had done to Frodo. He has given his life, in the end, for Sam and it was enough. It seemed the others knew it too, for Legolas sighed as if in final farewell and Gimli moved towards Boromir, one hand saluting him in a last show of respect.

Aragorn still did not move. Real worry began to form in Gandalf's heart, though he knew it was ill-founded. The son of Arathorn had seen much death in his relatively short life, more than enough to understand and know it intimately. But he was still, so still.

Gandalf hesitated, then walked up to him, making sure to make enough noise to warn even the most blatant daydreamer, and placed a hand on the Man's shoulder. Aragorn stirred, looking up. There was despair in those grey eyes, too much for Gandalf's taste, but there was hope and clarity too, and a burning determination. His heart began to lighten when Aragorn offered him a small smile, a look of quiet reassurance.

It began to weigh him down again when he noticed the very big crimson stain on Aragorn's shoulder. He turned his attention round to the others, and found a plethora of blood there too, though how much was their own he could not have said. He let out a breath, then decided to take the age-old advice of caring for the living.

"Are any of you injured?"

No one answered, which was just as well, seeing as it was something of a rhetorical question. It was rather obvious that they all were, and he didn't even want to think about Boromir. But he must, soon. He must think of Boromir, mourn him as well as he could, and think of Sam- what of Sam? How would they meet this new challenge?

Frodo he must let go now, with goodwill and all speed. The little Hobbit would carry all their hopes and wishes and loves to Mount Doom, and there was nothing Gandalf could do for him now, but to save the one Frodo held most dear.

_Yes,_ he thought. _If he comes back, Sam _will_ be waiting._

* * *

_'Yes,' said Aragorn, 'we shall all need the endurance of Dwarves. But come! With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them, if we prove the swifter! We will make such a chase as shall be accounted a marvel among the Three Kindreds: Elves. Dwarves, and Men. Forth the Three Hunters!'*_

* * *

*J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers, pg. 20. Unwin Paperbacks 3rd edition 1979 version.

And so, we move into the decidedly darker and more dangerous waters of _The Two Towers_... How will their time in Rohan go, now that so many, many things have changed? If Sam, not Merry and Pippin are with the orcs, will the Ents march? How can Frodo, all alone, hope to complete the quest? I hope I did justice to the Amon Hen scenes- they are intense, emotional, action-packed and very, very hard to write! So, please review!


	12. Chapter 12

I do apologise for the erratic posting schedule I have! Real life is hectic right now, so this is the first chance I have to update, I promise! Thank you so much to all reviewers, and if I haven't replied you yet, please be patient with me! I try my very best to reply to each and every one of you, because I appreciate your comments so much, but well, I'm busy. If I haven't replied and you want me to, feel free to send me an enraged PM!

Please enjoy :)

**Disclaimer:** Anything and everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs, or to New Line Cinema.

* * *

_February 29th, T.A. 3019_

_Down the face of a precipice, sheer and almost smooth it seemed in the pale moonlight, a small black shape was moving with its thin limbs splayed out. Maybe its soft clinging hands and toes were used, but it looked as if it was just creeping down on sticky pads, like some large prowling thing of insect-kind. And it was coming down head first, as if it was smelling its way. Now and again it lifted its head slowly, turning it right back on its long skinny neck, and [Frodo] caught a glimpse of two small pale gleaming lights, its eyes that blinked at the moon for a moment and then were quickly lidded again.*_

Frodo shifted again, and tried not to let his rough, loud breaths disturb the quiet of the night too much, but not so silently that the creature would become aware that he did not truly sleep. He feared to alert the gangling thing to his consciousness, although of course it could always be that it already knew...

It was clever, alarmingly so. It appeared deceptively weak and small, with a constant mutter of gibberish that might make one dismiss it as mad, but though it certainly was, that did not diminish its intelligence, clearly. It could scale sheer cliffs with hardly a foothold, it could track him almost soundlessly and had been tracking the Fellowship- but he did not want to think of them, he could not think of them, now now- evidently, since Moria.

But no, the Quest could not end here, at the hands of a thin, wasted, tormented creature half his size. He had prevailed against a Balrog- admittedly with a lot of help- and Gollum would not take this from him!

_For me, and for your Sam and for the Fellowship and for Bilbo and for the Shire and for Middle-earth._

No, Gollum could not wrest this from his grasp, for he _would _hold on to it, down to the last breath in his body. Hopefully, it would not come to that, but if there was one thing he'd learnt it was to always expect the worse...

His hands tensed, the slightest movement that went unseen by his little footpad, who settled itself down on a ledge not far away to watch him and, presumably, plan, large pale eyes glowing with malice and desire.

Then it rose, and began to circle closer, cautious and uncannily noiseless, coming ever closer. Frodo waited, biding his time. Only perfect timing and a good deal of luck would save him now... Now, when most of all he felt like he needed the swords of his companions- not forgetting bows and axes and staffs, of course. And pots and pans, if Sam had anything to say about it...

But he _must _concentrate.

With a cry, he rose up suddenly and flung himself in Gollum's direction, his greater weight and size bearing them both forwards in a tangle of limbs. They struck hard ground, and he felt for Gollum's arms immediately, seeking desperately to pin them down as it fought him with frightening strength.

The skinny, yet strong arms had a hold on him, the legs kicking at him wildly and relentlessly. Frodo struggled, pressing his advantage, forcing Gollum's arms back down, and for a second he tasted victory cold and metallic on his tongue. But in a move so sudden and swift he could not follow it, the creature swung its legs out, hooked one foot round his arm and yanked it away. He felt his arms give against Gollum's as they were slammed against the ground and pain exploded in his elbow. The creature moved so he was on top. Gollum's feet were on his arms now, stopping any weak movement. Cold hard fear rose in his throat. It was over- Gollum had won. His hands were on his neck now, tightening, crushing his windpipe, and he needed air he needed air _now _as his body began to seize up-

_The hurrying darkness, now gathering great speed, rushed up from the East and swallowed the sky. There was a dry splitting crack of thunder right overhead. Searing lightning smote down into the hills. Then came a blast of savage wind, and with it, mingling with its roar, there came a high shrill shriek.**_

If, Frodo mused with a sort of sick fascination, what he felt when Gollum's long fingers closed around his throat was fear, then this was something utterly different. Terror, perhaps? Or maybe there wasn't a word strong enough for what that unnatural, chilling scream awoke in him. Horror, terror... and deep inside him, yearning. Yearning to draw out the Ring he kept safe and slip in onto his finger, to become like them...

_But no. I would not be like them, Sauron would kill me, and all of Middle-earth would fall to eternal evil. No..._

The iron grip on his throat had eased, and he could breathe again. For a moment he did nothing but revel in the beauty of being able to draw air into his lungs, then he realised the opportunity suddenly dropped into his hands and lurched up as fast as he could, trying to ignore the sore fierce pain around his neck and the pit in his stomach of shock and debilitating fear, eyes searching desperately for Gollum-

A high keening wail came to his ears. Blinking in astonishment, he looked down at the heap of skin and bone cringing at his feet, suddenly reduced to a mess of incomprehensible mutters that Frodo could not decipher, and one word, always one word...

_...Pity, and Mercy..._

_...that stayed his hand...__***_

In that moment Frodo let the snivelling, miserable, distrusted, traitorous wretch of a being into his heart, if only to pity. It was enough.

He drew his sword, and stood over the creature, tip at its neck.

"I cannot kill you, for I do... I do pity you. Thank your gods, whoever they may be, for that, for a thousand times you deserve death, Gollum! But perhaps we are not so different after all- or we will not be. Still, I have spared you: Do not forget it." He cast a worried look around- Rope, hadn't Sam said they would need it? And here he was without any.

Well, improvisation was a skill he was going to have to... improvise. He looked round for suitable substitutes, and found himself untying the ropes of the bag supplied to them before they left the Woods, unstringing them and testing their strength. It would do, he supposed, after a fashion, though it was nothing to the rope Sam had, it was made by Elves and therefore had to be of certain quality.

Keeping Gollum at sword's point, he quickly bound the creature's hands and feet, although he wondered what he was to do with it, after this night. But he was far too tired to care about that now, and after an hour of watching beneath his eyelids as Gollum's attempts to escape proved futile, he fell into fitful sleep.

* * *

It was a grey day, lit by ashes and fire in the cold mists of his awareness. Pain: he knew it. It ran through his head, circling it like some bizarre crown, one he'd never wanted to wear. It coursed through his arm, a long hot slice that burned and froze in the same moment. It ached in one ankle, it pressed against his shoulder, it encompassed his body.

And most painfully of all, it pounded in his heart, because he'd seen it, seen Mr. Boromir fall and what could he do? He had only one last wish now, for his master's safety, or he would have given up long ago. But Mr. Frodo was still out there somewhere and he needed him and he wouldn't fail his master no matter how he'd already done it...

The orcs snarled and hissed as they cast him down, like some unwanted, useless piece of baggage. But not unneeded- their Master had asked for him, apparently. But their loyalty was something foreign to Sam. It was not the tender, fierce love that bore Sam's unwavering devotion to _his_ master, it was a complicated blend of fear and hatred and a hint of hunger and love that drove these creatures to serve their Master and though he was the one tied up and hurt and a prisoner, he couldn't help but to feel an unexplained sense of gratitude that he was Sam and not some horrible monster.

"Move, short one! Move!" A hoarse voice yelled, and a hand roughly seized him and set him on his feet.

"I'm not moving, till I get some meat!"

Cries of dissent were rampant in the ranks, and Sam blinked rather blearily, thinking that perhaps Hobbits and orcs weren't quite so different after all, at least in their appetites...

"We are Uruk-hai." A cold voice growled, out of nowhere it seemed to Sam, and he shivered involuntarily. "We bear the White Hand, and we bring the Halflings to Isengard: untouched. Move!" He shuddered. Uruk-hai! So that was what they were, these strange big orcs, strong and smart.

He swallowed a sob. He couldn't give up. He must escape, somehow, but what could he do? Sam had never been more acutely aware of his small size than now, surrounded by these huge, strong creatures. He didn't stand a chance.

But he couldn't give up. He wouldn't, because Mr. Frodo needed him and that was all he cared about now. A new sense filled little Sam suddenly, a fire and wrath that seemed to conquer even his cold and despair, awoken by loyalty and anger and a desperate certainty that Frodo needed him, somehow and somewhere- and he _would not stop _till he found his Master or death took him.

But, he realised with a sinking feeling, grand oaths were all very well, but they weren't very practical. He still didn't have an inkling how to get out of here.

"Blasted horsebreeders!" His ears pricked up. Anyone who the orcs considered 'blasted' was very likely to be an ally, seeing as along the way, they'd called the Fellowship 'a nuisance', Aragorn 'cursed', Gimli 'damned'... and he didn't consider the words they used to describe Legolas fit for any Hobbit's ears. What had the Elf done to them, he wondered? Well, Sam, focus on the present, he told himself. Maybe one day you will hear the story, but that day will never come if you sit here daydreaming!

He settled himself to listen, and caught snatches of conversation- and a rather heated argument- enough to confirm that they would stop to prepare for an attack from these 'horsebreeders'. Who were they? Men? It seemed likely, but one could never be quite sure when it came to such people as this!

In any case, he thought with a shiver at the memory of Boromir's wild eyes, even if they were Men, it was no guarantee that they were friends. Although he was sure that Men wouldn't be tempted to eat him, as these horrible creatures seemed to be, which could only be good...

A cry went up: "They are here! They are here!" A chill of fear ran through him. How different this was from his days in the Shire, or even with the Fellowship, where he at least had the reassurance of warriors around- and Mr. Frodo. He found himself still instinctively frightened by the mere sounds of battle, the clash of sword on sword and the proud cries of the Men- for Men they were, he could see that now.

He shrank back slightly, clenching his fists. They did not seem evil to him, but you never knew. Still, he thought, if they would defeat the orcs, that could only be good...

His eyes lit up suddenly. _Samwise Gamgee, you fool! _He berated himself, and quickly began to work at his bonds. _An opportunity like this dropped in your lap, and you sit here wondering whether your unwitting saviours are good people!_

The ropes were well-knotted, but he quickly found a discarded blade and rubbed them against the sharp knife, smiling in relief when they came free. "Well! That's done," he murmured. "What next, I wonder?"

He couldn't go anywhere while the fight was on, for he was sure he would get trampled! But-

A thin hand wrapped itself around his arm, and he froze, his heartbeat accelerating dramatically. "Where are you going, little one?" A malicious voice whispered, and he shivered, the mockery of the endearment that the Big People had called him and Mr. Frodo by sending a chill down his spine. He began to struggle desperately. A cold blade at his neck stopped him.

"Where will you run to, Halfling?" It spat at him, smirking at his fear. "What is it you carry? Something of value, so says Uglúk. Won't you show it to me?"

He choked back a gasp. No, he would never tell this monster where It was! "I don't have it!"

The next moment, it struck him what a monumentally stupid thing this was to say. Now they would know he wasn't the one, and they would abandon him and go after Mr. Frodo... Something gripped his hair and yanked his head near.

"Don't lie, little fool. I can do things you never dreamed of in your wildest nightmares." A knife was run lightly across his cheek. '"Should I?"

He shut his eyes and tried to picture Mr. Frodo's face. He was doing this for his Master, yes. What had his Gaffer said? Always serve your Master. He would. Deep in his throat he worked his voice, and a noise came out. _Gollum, gollum!_ In the night it had an eerie effect he was not prepared for, but all the better...

A snarl leapt from the darkness. "Do not toy with me, stupid Halfling! Where is it?"

"You will never get It," he whispered, angrily. "I have it in a place you will never find It. Give up!" Its hands were on him now, feeling him everywhere, in his pockets, in his clothes, all over, but there was nothing.

"Where?" It demanded, its head suddenly very close. "If you value your life, tell me!"

"I value something more," he hissed. He did. He did. This... _thing_ wouldn't get anywhere close to his master. "Give up, you filthy monster! You will die soon! They are coming!" It was true. The fight was moving ever nearer to them, and a growl of rage escaped the orc's throat, and suddenly he sprang forward and sank a knife in Sam's chest.

A grey day. A grey day when the first of the Shire's greathearts was given for the War.

* * *

_March 1st, T.A. 3019_

He was tired.

He would rather rip out his beard than admit it- least of all to that infuriating Elf- but he was. It was no shame, he knew that, for every warrior who deserved to be called one knew their limits, and his were certainly not to be overlooked.

They had run for days, and yet it seemed their goal was ever beyond their grasp.

He sighed, shading his eyes as he cast a few thoughtful looks around. Legolas was jogging easily beside him, his eyes holding that strange shimmer which told the Dwarf he was off somewhere else, dreaming, sleeping you could call it. He sighed and shook his head. How could the Elf risk daydreaming like that in enemy territory? Or anywhere, for that matter?

He inwardly shrugged and decided that he had better things to do than worry about Elves. His next companion was running a few paces ahead, before he suddenly stopped and dropped to the ground, pale face intent on this new clue. He shook his head again, deciding that Men and Elves were the strangest creatures Arda ever spawned. The ground looked to him like, well, the ground, and somehow the Man managed to find a trail on what seemed to him just rock and grass.

Aragorn rose, but faltered in his stride as he continued, stumbling and nearly falling, but he quickly righted himself and ran on. Gimli frowned, having found a more substantial worry than the complexities of human and Elven brains. The Man's shoulder wound had been nasty, and the blood loss too much. But what could they have done? To stay there and wait for him to heal while those monstrosities carried Sam ever further...

Still, perhaps they should stop to rest. It would do them no good if he toppled over before they could even set foot in Rohan, after all, but Sam...

The little Hobbits had been their charge, theirs to protect, and they had failed. Now they were running, most of all, to redeem a failure, and to stop was something he knew, deep in his heart, none of them would do.

He resolved to keep an eye on his wayward friend, and turned his thoughts to the last hunter who ran with them.

He had been, to say the least, surprised that the- seeming- old greybeard could actually keep up with their pace- and without too much difficulty. He'd groaned and grumbled about the haste of youth, yes, but that had been more to lighten the mood than for true complaint. He had no idea how on earth the wizard managed it- probably something to do with being a wizard- and had no wish to know. Right now, he only wished that some wizardly powers could teleport them to Sam and somehow vaporise all the orcs.

What a pleasant picture.

He groaned softly and focussed on running. His lungs were burning, but he could not stop. He must not stop. Not when-

"Riders! Riders approach!"

He stopped his train of thought at the Elf's call, and frowned. This could be a good thing, or a bad thing, and while he would very much prefer it to be a good thing he had a niggling suspicion that it would be a bad thing, if the phrase 'a run of bad luck' was true at all.

He snorted quietly at the word 'run', seeing as he'd done nothing else for the past few days, and forced himself to pay attention.

"_Keen are the eyes of the Elves_,"**** Aragorn murmured, probably in response to some nonsensical thing the Elf had said, and he smiled. It was the first smile Gimli had seen out of him since that bloody day on Amon Hen, and the Dwarf smiled inwardly, too. All the same, that did not mean he wanted to sit here waiting for them to come.

"Are you sure of this? Should we not seek to conceal ourselves? We will be at their mercy, should they decided that we are foes!"

An odd smile crossed Gandalf's lips. "They may indeed decide so, but I do not think so. It may be different in Edoras, but here the word of the young leader should hold. And he is not one to so easily dismiss friend as foe."

"You know of him?" Legolas asked, slight suspicion on his fair face. Neither of them, the Elf or the Dwarf, were overly inclined to trust Gandalf after Amon Hen, no matter how blameless he might be. Boromir's body was not a sight they would forget soon.

"I do. There is not much point in arguing any longer, anyway, they are here!" And so they were. They had spotted the four standing in the midst of the plains and they checked their steeds with impressive ease and grace, swiftly surrounding them. One rode forth.

"Who are you, strangers?"

"I at least am not a stranger, Éomer, son of Éomund, and perhaps the older of your company will recognise my friend." Aragorn threw him a doubtful glance at this unprecedented reference, but Gandalf merely smiled his typical wise and mysterious smile.

"Gandalf Greyhame." Éomer dismounted, looking at him. "So you return, but not with the most prized of our horses, I see! But that is the least of my concerns. What is your business here, with so strange a company?"

Gandalf didn't say a word, looking very pointedly at Aragorn, who was right then deciding to strangle the wizard once they were alone. "We track some Uruk-hai across the plain. They have taken a... friend of ours captive."

Surprise was visible on the Rider's face. "It is fools who do that, with four in number, and yet I deem you no fools. Who are you, who spring from the grass as if enchanted, who track such foes as most would flee from? What are you doing in the Mark?"

"We have told you," Aragorn replied calmly. "We track them because they have someone very dear to us, and we will not stop till we find him."

"That is no plan," Éomer snapped, growing impatient. "And it is no answer. Your story is strange, what proof have I that you do not lie? The presence of a wizard is not always a good omen- as you may find, if I give you leave to enter Edoras. But I will not do so, not till you have given me something more substantial than dreams and tales!"

Aragorn's face tightened. Gimli's hand strayed to his axe, and Legolas fingered his bow, while Gandalf stood to the side, watching, a small smile playing on his face. _Ah, Éomer, you will regret angering my friends._

___Aragorn threw back his cloak. The elven-sheath glittered as he grasped it, and the bright blade of Andúril shone like a sudden flame as he swept it out. 'I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. Here is the sword that was broken and is forged again! Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly!'*****_

The smile left Gandalf's face as he schooled it to impassive thought, but the pride burned in his heart. This was he, Aragorn, King of Gondor and Arnor- or would be, one day. Judging by the looks on Legolas's and Gimli's faces, they thought so too.

So did Éomer. The Man took a step back, and lowered his gaze.

"These are dark times, but it seems there are yet great Men, Lord!" He murmured, and a light of respect and hope was kindled in the proud eyes. "Very well. I cannot believe that you, Lord, are evil, or allied with evil, or you, Grey Pilgrim. We slaughtered the orcs you spoke of, some days ago. You have no need to continue your chase."

"But our friend!" Gimli found himself quite unable to keep quiet. "There was a Hobbit with them, a child to your eyes. Was there not?"

Sudden understanding flooded Éomer's eyes. "Aye, there was. But he was dead, stabbed by an orc's blade. We buried him some distance from the foul creatures, free of besmirch by such monsters. He rests in a small vale not far from here, and _Simbelmynë _shall grow ever white on his grave. I am sorry."

An abrupt silence overtook Gimli's senses. Around him, he heard Legolas stumble back and utter a soft cry so full of grief that it pierced his heart, he heard Aragorn's low whisper of farewell, he heard Gandalf's calm voice answer Éomer- but it was all blurred and clouded into a haze of sorrow. _Sam!_ Quiet, steadfast, loving Sam, with his simple devotion to his master, a Halfling who should never have left his green fields, who should never have tasted the pain of a blade. They should have protected him!

It was this thought that drew a cry from him, a deep, guttural sound of mourning and horror. It reverberated in his bones and through his heart, and he shut his eyes and bowed his head. _I'm sorry, little one._

A few more remarks were exchanged, and Éomer's men offered them horses. Lost in his homage to the Hobbit he'd learned to love so much, he did not even think to object the fact that Dwarves were not made to ride- his own two feet were well enough- and allowed Legolas to help him up without comment.

They sat there on horses, unsure of where to turn, and watched as the Rohirrim wheeled and galloped away, their flags billowing and shields glinting in the wind and the sun.

But where should they go? They had nothing left to chase.

Silence. Such terrible silence.

"We will follow them to Edoras," Gandalf's voice sounded, as if from far away. "We must warn Rohan. Saruman flexes his might." There was no argument, for no one could find it in themselves to bother over where they would go now.

Three horses, fleet-footed and willing, ate the vast, rolling plains of the Mark under their hooves, but their riders were still and unmoving as they ran on.

* * *

*J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers, pg. 272. Unwin Paperbacks 3rd edition 1979 version.

**J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers, pg. 264-265. Unwin Paperbacks 3rd edition 1979 version.

***J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers, pg. 275. Unwin Paperbacks 3rd edition 1979 version.

****J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers, pg. 33. Unwin Paperbacks 3rd edition 1979 version.

*****J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers, pg. 37-38. Unwin Paperbacks 3rd edition 1979 version.

Wow, that was a lot of references! I hereby apologise for killing Sam, I wish I didn't! But it had to be done. Please review!


	13. Chapter 13

**AN**: Hm, I suppose I have no excuse for how late this is except, well, LIFE. Despite all that (and the fact that I have no idea when I can post the next chapter- it's written and ready, but I will honestly have no time to come online for quite a while again) I do hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

**AN2**: There is another note at the end of the chapter with my thoughts on the AU parts of this chapter. Feel free to skip it if you are not interested, it doesn't contain anything essential!

* * *

_Feburary 30th, T.A. 3019_

A sweet song seemed to reach his ears, and he smelled the sweet fragrance of Lothlórien. Across a deep starless sky the moon was rising.

_This is the hour of the Shire-folk..._

A great terrible roar rose up in his brain, and he shuddered against cold rock. Elladan's face floated hauntingly before him, frying-pan in hand.

_Keep off my carrots..._

_And if you do not find the way..._

Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins loomed before him. "_Upon the edge of a knife," _she whispered, and he felt the sudden chill of Black Riders. Hoofbeats... Terror filled his soul. He turned and ran, but-

_Give it to me, Frodo-_

Barliman Butterbur popped out, pawing and choking. "_Precious, precious-"_

_._

He rose with a half-muffled cry, and his eyes shot open to see Gollum glaring balefully at him across the rocky space he had chosen to rest. The lithe creature had evidently been struggling the whole night, for his wrists were rubbed raw and his bonds loosened a little. Frodo sighed wearily and struggled to his feet, clapping a hand to his shoulder when sudden ice shot through it. He staggered to a halt and waited for it to pass, and stumbled across to Gollum, hauling him to his feet.

"There now, Gollum. Do not glare at me so! You have brought this upon yourself. But what shall I do with you now, I wonder?" He frowned, eyeing the rocks doubtfully. "Somehow I do not think you would truly leave me alone, should I release you. And yet I cannot kill you."

He stared deep into the malice and desire that coated Gollum's eyes, and searched for something more. _There_! The spark of consciousness and humanity not quite lost in this wasted thing, though hidden beneath layers of evil and corruption. Maybe...

"I do not want to think you beyond redemption," he said at last. "For if I did, it would be to say that I, too, cannot go back. And yet I know in my heart it is so. but perhaps, perhaps it is not too late, after all." He mused, but did not have the time to ponder this well. _Perhaps._

But it was always perhaps, was it not? Was there no certainty at all in this world, save evil? Evil in the form of a Ring that gave certainy, all right- but false certainty, corrupting and destroying, as it had this miserable wretch. That was it!

_Precious._

Sudden determination shone in his eyes, and in one swift decisive movement he brought forth the One Ring. Gollum stopped still, staring at in in some sort of strange rapture. The last few _gollums_ faded away, and all was quiet.

"Yes, Gollum. I hold your precious, now. It is not mine, but it is not yours either. And the one to whom it does belong must not regain it. I pity you, but I will not allow you to stand in my way." He bent, eyes boring into Gollums, and the little thing cowered, pierced by a gaze both stern and wise. "So swear, Gollum, on and by this precious of yours, that you will do me no harm, and aid me in any way you can, on my quest. But do not swear lightly! For it is a thing of great power." So saying, Frodo sat back, satisfied. He had done all that he could. If Gollum did not swear, he would slit his throat- He would not like it, but...

He shuddered, suddenly chilled. What was he, that he could now kill in cold blood? Back in the Shire, the mere sight of blood would have frightened him, and now he was so calm about drawing it. _But it is important, _he reminded himself firmly, _I must do this._

_"_We swears, yes, we swears on the Precious! We won't do anything bad to the nice Hobbit, no, we won't, on the Precious we swears, we'll helps the nice Hobbit, yes, we swears, _gollum, gollum_, oh, poor Sméagol, how he burns! how he hurts! But he will be good, yes, we swears..."

But Frodo suddenly ducked till his face was inches from Gollum's, and cold blue eyes searched the murky depths of Gollum's. "Promise," he repeated in a voice of steel. "I bid you promise on the precious with all that you are and in less words than I!"

_Gollum, gollum..._ It shivered and shook, miserably, but something in his eyes convinced it that that would do no good, and suddenly it straightened. "We promise on the Precious, yes!" It spat, and Frodo could see the truth in it. He nodded.

"Very well! I will release you, then. But take care, for words bound by the Ring are not to be lightly discarded."

_...The next stage of their journey was much the same as the last. As they went on the gully became ever shallower and the slope of its floor more gradual. Its bottom was less stony and more earthy, and slowly its sides dwindled to mere banks. It began to wind and wander. That night drew to its end, but clouds were now over moon and star, and they knew of the coming of day only by the slow spreading of the thin grey light._

_In a chill hour they came to the end of the water-course. The banks became moss-grown mounds. Over the last shelf of rotting stone the stream gurgled and fell down into a brown bog and was lost. Dry reeds hissed and rattled though they could feel no wind.*_

* * *

_March 2nd, T.A. 3019_

Their grief was silent, at first, quiet and great as the vast fields they rode through. But it was the Dwarf who broke the silence, finally, in a voice low and rough with sorrow and bright with memory...

"He was a good lad." It was all he could manage, but all they needed, and suddenly a flood of _I remembers_ was unleashed, each adding their own special bit of who Samwise had been to the treasury of memories they would hold in their hearts for him to till the ends of time, for none had a friend more faithful than the little gardener from the Shire.

Thus they rode on through the great plains of Rohan, and slowly the grief that they held was taken and molded into words that shared their pain and slowly sorrow turned to quiet acceptance and a burning determination that this little one would be the last of his kind to die for Middle-earth; he must be. They would give all they could give to see the Shire evergreen, as Sam would have so loved to see it again.

They would _fight._

When, finally, the flags of Edoras came into sight, fluttering high in the wind as they had in the days of Eorl the Young, they were all weary, and yet stubbornly upright in their saddles, for they would not enter the halls of Rohan's king defeated.

Gandalf felt the change in the city as soon as his foot hit the ground upon dismounting the horse. Something hung over Edoras, something cold and full of malice, biding its time but painfully obvious to him. It was the full embodiment of the echo of evil he had felt lingering around Éomer and his company, and it disturbed him greatly. Surely Rohan had not fallen so far in so short a time!

Suspicious eyes were on them as they strode through the city, three strangers and one mystical old acquaintance. How many of them could have even seen an Elf or a Dwarf before? He sighed, taking pity on the people, and did not spear them with his glare as he would any other who stared at them so, when they were tired and grieving. But the time for rest had not yet come, and perhaps it never would.

He gave his sword without protest, although he was surprised that Legolas and Gimli made no objection to being parted with the weapons they carried on themselves at all times. Such was the life of a warrior. But perhaps they were more weary than he had thought, which could result in complications later on, but there was nothing he could do about it. In any case, both of them probably had hidden knives somewhere on their person- once he'd watched as a Mirkwood contingent produced knives from the most unorthodox places, leaving the Rivendell Elves with mouths hanging- but then Aragorn surrendered Andúril wordlessly, with only an icy look at the door-warden which left him in no doubt as to what Aragorn would do to him, should his sword be lost or damaged in any way.

Andúril! Narsil reforged was no mere sword, and he would have expected far more resistance from Aragorn at the idea of separating him from it. And yet... He examined the Man with thoughtful scrutiny, noting the slump to the shoulders despite his stubbornly strong bearing, and sighed. He should not have forgotten that the Man- and, indeed, Legolas and Gimli- were injured. It was a miscalculation that might cost them soon, but now there was no time for such thoughts.

Cold and remote were Théoden King's halls now, silent as a crypt and filled with shadows. He felt them at the edge of his mind, and frowned. Something dark was at work here.

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King."

His voice was calm, and echoed in the great, empty hall. The bent figure seated on the throne did not stir, but the one at his side did.

"Théoden King has no reason to welcome such visitors... Gandalf Greyhame." His sense of danger was suddenly as heightened as if someone had started ringing alarm bells in his ears. The Théoden he remembered was a strong, if stubborn, leader, he would never allow a subordinate to speak for him. And why was Gríma so confident?

"Be silent! I did not come here to bandy words with a witless worm. Théoden! Great is your need. Will you not seek help?" But the figure did not move. Something twisted his heart, and he shut his eyes in denial. No, it could not be.

"Your silence is the only one required!" Wormtongue approached, cold triumph in his snake-like eyes. "It is you that seeks help, Grey Wanderer, but you shall not find it here. The King is beyond you."

So it was.

It was. Théoden was overtaken. Could he take Saruman now? A sarcastic voice in his head began to laugh at this question. Of course not. And yet, what else could he do? Flee? Perhaps. There was nothing they could do in Rohan anymore, that much was painfully clear. He knew now, could sense Curunír in this room, in Gríma, but most of all in the motionless king. No, Théoden was indeed gone.

He hesitated a split second. Ah, Curunír might have the power, but Olórin was wisest, and most quick-thinking. All that they had now relied on the reaction speeds of a Man, an Elf and a Dwarf- and weary ones, at that. Well, he would have to trust to their strengths.

"_You shall not pass_," he whispered under his breath. Gríma leaned forward, plainly puzzled. Curunír was laughing. Then he lifted his staff, and a sudden brilliance enveloped the room, white light radiating from it. And he raised his hand.

Narya, Ring of Fire.

Gimli looked flabbergasted. Legolas' elven composure was shaken, but not destroyed, for he merely raised an eyebrow. Aragorn's expression was unreadable, but the hint of understanding in his eyes convinced Gandalf.

What happened next was utterly amazing.

Fire! Fire burned, called and commanded by a wizard who wrought it as silk in his hands, and it ate everything, casting the world into chaos, and through it all a grey figure stood still, hand raised, and power shook the air all around him as the king moved and force rushed out of him towards the wizard...

And three ducked through the confusion and hurled themselves out of the hall, and fled Edoras.

Gandalf knew, the moment he could not hold it any longer. Curunír's strength was too great, his power too palpable. He was cast to the ground, and before blackness took him, his last thought that if the three of them hadn't got out of here, he would be very, very annoyed.

* * *

They reined in their horses when the only pounding of hooves was that of their own horses, and sat, in stunned disbelief.

Nine had dwindled, to eight, to seven, to four, now to three. What was become of the world, that such friendships were broken, and comrades sundered for the good of Middle-earth? For now their responsibility was all the more heavy on their shoulders. They could not, must not, dishonour the sacrifices that had carried them here, they must not...

Once again, it was Gimli who spoke first.

"Well, my friends. It is done."

"So it is," murmured Aragorn. "To what end, I cannot fathom. But it is done, and cannot be undone."

Legolas stood still in the wind, and he looked West with an expression that well broke Gimli's heart, such was the depth of sorrow in the ageless eyes. Finally he turned to look at them. "So it is," he echoed, a timbre to the fair voice that jarred its beauty. "But what shall we do now?"

Gimli shook his head. But Aragorn looked to the south with longing and doubt, and for one moment Gimli could once more see the Man who would be King, if all their hopes came to fruition, great and noble and somehow sad in a way that was Elvish and yet not. "Gondor," he said finally. "We cannot aid Rohan now, nor Gandalf, nor... Frodo. But we may go to the last free city of Men, and there we shall see what we shall see."

"You speak as Gandalf did," Gimli sighed, suddenly struck by this truth, "riddling and unclear. But as such it is wisdom. We shall ride for Gondor, though pray let us go with all speed, for spending any more time aboard this creature will be the end of me!"

Smiles ghosted across their faces, gone as quickly as they had come, and the last three of the Fellowship set out for the White City to fulfill a promise they had made to a son of Gondor.

* * *

And far across the green plains an arrow flew through the air and pierced the heart of Éomer, son of Éomund, and Rohan's hope of a new age died.

* * *

And before the hall of Meduseld Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, lifted a potion of death to her lips and the White Lady of Rohan laid herself down on cold stone and fell into eternal sleep, and the Witch-King would live.

* * *

_March 5th, T.A. 3019_

Frodo lifted his face, and felt the hot wind burn across it, bringing hints of evil that he recoiled from, and yet it was where he must go, if he was to have any chance, and the Ring was laughing in a dark corner of his mind, for how could he hope to pass this impregnable fortress?

The sheer magnitude took his breath away, but not in the way that he imagined the grandeur of Boromir's White City might have. _That _was a labour of love, he knew, built with the blood and sweat and sheer love of thousands of Men, but this reeked of fear and horror and was built upon the corpses of the Free Peoples...

But he must pass it.

He must pass it.

He cast his gaze around for an opening, any opening, but-

A shuffle was all the warning he had, and suddenly Gollum was there, eyes large and mouth slivering with drool as in his throat the noises crescendoed.

"No, no, Master musn't go in there, Master will bring It straight to the Eye, the great Eye always watching!- No, nice master, musn't do that, no, no-"

"Silence!" Frodo snapped, his nerves breaking finally. It was too much, too much to be called by the endearment that had always been Sam's, his Sam who had given himself for his master, and who was in all probability now _dead_ for loyalty and love- to have such a memory fouled by this... _creature, _no matter how Frodo might pity him- No! "Come to the point. If that is the way to Mordor, I shall take it, for such is my Quest."

A strange gleam came into Gollum's eyes, and he could practically see Sméagol slip out and Gollum take full control of the lithe body. Misgiving made him step back. "Quest? Interesting, interesting, Master never said anything about a Quest, no, no, but good Sméagol never asks, Master said to bring him to the Black Gate, and nice, good Sméagol did, but no, no, nice Master musn't give himself to the Eye, and It too..."

"No, I will not," Frodo interrupted. "But I must get in there. If this is the way, so be it. I do not ask you to come with me to your probable death, Sméagol, and I thank you for your aid thus far. Go, and be good, as you say. I wish you well!" _But there is no way Gollum would leave the Ring now and I know it..._

"No!" Gollum shot up suddenly, then went down again, pawing at Frodo's feet. "No, no, good Sméagol won't leave master all alone in the Land, the Black Place, no, nice master musn't go there! Come, Sméagol knows another way, another way, yes, secret way, dark way, no one will find Master then, no! Good Sméagol will keep master safe!" _Ah, but there is a look in your eyes I do not trust, the same look in Boromir's before he attacked, and Sméagol, I am sorry. I am so sorry, but I cannot trust you. Time grows ever short._

A shudder passed through the land, and sudden urgency took hold of Frodo. Yes, time was running out, for everyone, and for him most of all. He felt instinctively that if he did not do this now he never would, and he could not wind his way around whatever dark and secret way that Gollum wanted to lead him on... probably to his death. No...

"No," he said, and a stern light was in his eyes. "No, Sméagol. Do not harbour such thoughts now, for you are bound, do not forget! You swore on this thing you would not dare to go against. Remember that! But I cannot go on your way, for more and more I feel the tug of time on my heart. No, the time for secret ways is over. I must go, and in speed now must I put my hope- and all the hopes of the world. Speed, and what stealth I can glean. I have no time."

There was light in Gollum's eyes too, a fatal shimmer. Frodo caught his breath.

"No time?" There was a silky smoothness to Gollum's voice now, and Sméagol was dead, totally and utterly. The part of Frodo that had hoped for Sméagol made him send one last plea to whoever might listen, but in reality he knew Gollum was Gollum now and forever. "For what, I wondersss, precious, for what? Why does nice master- nice?- _master_ go to the Eye, to the fire? Sméagol wondersss, yes, perhaps-" And he raised his head high and malice and madness was burning in the snakelike orbs...

Frodo retreated a step. "Sméagol..." His voice was low, but taut, a final warning. _Remember._

_Oh, but the Ring makes you forget..._

"Sméagol, no, no, but _Sméagol, _nice Sméagol, yes, _gollum, gollum, _but what if master takes precious to the Eye, what then? Master gets eaten yes, Precious goes back, but master mustn't let the precious go back there, no, no, give it back to Sméagol!" He leapt at Frodo, swiping at his neck.

"_Gollum!" _It was the last call Frodo would give to Sméagol, once hobbit. No more.

But Gollum flew at him with all the ferocity of the desperate and it all faded to ash and gold swirling in ephemeral dances around him, and incessantly the word rang in his head as he grappled helplessly with Gollum, the word he'd read in the dusty tomes in Rivendell's library, the word he did not know, yet, would apply to he or Gollum, the word _kinslayer_ and he knew that either of them was so much worse than the Noldor all those years before because they were kin in so many, many ways.

Fingers, those long bony fingers that had gripped his neck before, just a week or so ago... How could it be? How, that he- _it-_ had led him all the way here and then given in? Perhaps, he thought dully, perhaps he knows I will die anyway, and so will he, and might as well cut the misery short.

And oh, Gollum was so strong. So strong, so desperate, so quick. And all he had was hope.

Hope!

Bitterness choked his throat even before tears, for the absurdity of the thought even as he fought on. Because what was there to do, but to fight? Lie down and die? But how could he do that?

He wrenched Gollum's arm down with a crack, and realised with a sickening jolt that he was strong, too. Made strong, crafted into something dark and powerful by the Ring that hung about his neck. But he was a small Hobbit with no hope left but the world's. But he was powerful.

He was powerful.

But could he do this? Use this thing? That had seduced those so much greater than he, whose honour and pride and loyalty he could never match? What would happen to him?

Would Sauron know?

He might be strong but Gollum was stronger and he was losing he knew it when Gollum's nails tore deep into his shoulder in a failed attempt at his neck. And he could not save the world if he was dead.

He tugged the Ring from its chain.

It slipped upon his finger as if it had never belonged anywhere else and he was drowning in molten gold that burned and froze and cradled and pierced and caressed and strangled and it was so beautiful.

The world blurred to flaming shadows.

A distorted shriek of pure hatred echoed.

He ducked.

He ran.

One hand clasped over the gold at his hand, as if one hand could cover all evil.

Then sudden realisation drew him to a stop, and slowly he turned around.

_Pity, and Mercy..._

_That stayed his hand-_

But there was no room for pity in war, and how could mercy for one creature measure against the hope of the whole world?

He drew a blade.

Blood tasted red on the blade, blood of Gollum so like Frodo and yet so different, blood like fire and banners and the strawberries he used to pick every year come summer, and the Ring slipped from his finger to land quietly in the limp fist of one who had fought and loved and wanted and died for it but in the end it did not matter.

And it began to rain, droplets that washed Frodo's curls through and made the gold shine in the hand of one who could never clasp it close again.

* * *

*J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers, pg. 287. Unwin Paperbacks 3rd edition 1979 version.

**AN3**: Okay I'll address this (explanation of the many deaths) methodically!

1.** Théoden: **Now, while I know that in the books he was just tired and discouraged and sick, influenced by Wormtongue, I thought it would not be a great mistake to follow the _movie_ on this one aspect. In the movie, for those who haven't seen it, Théoden is possessed by Saruman and Gandalf is only able to defeat him because he has grown more powerful since his return. In this, however, he has remained the Grey, and thus has not gained the power that the White has.

2. **Éomer and Éowyn: **Well. In Éomer's case, he was in constant danger in battle anyway so it's very possible that he could have died. Also, my idea was that Wormtongue planted a traitor in the midst of his Riders, and it was this man who killed him. In Éowyn's case, she was despairing anyway, and Aragorn did not turn up. I do believe that Aragorn brought her hope in her darkest time, but since he didn't come, and she received news that her beloved brother was dead, and her King was completely under Wormtongue's spell... I think it conceivable that she might have committed suicide. She was always willing to die, anyway.

3. **Gollum: **In the book, you'll notice that at one point Sam thinks that it's fortunate that Gollum doesn't know why they are on the Quest- to destroy the precious- or he would go mad with anger. So Frodo is a little careless with his words and Gollum realises that Frodo is going to destroy the Ring and... well. You get the idea.

Yes, that's all. Any thoughts on whether it was realistic/possible, please review and let me know!


	14. Chapter 14

Okay, here's the next chapter! So sorry for the wait. I think I can make a pretty solid promise that the next one will be here in a month at most, though!

* * *

_March 3, T.A. 3019_

The rain fell unceasingly as if in futile effort to wash the green lands clean of the evil that had touched and stained them, seemingly into eternity, rain that smelled of flowers and summer and home, or what home had been before this.

Rohan flowed ever by, as did time. They rode, ate, slept, rode, ate, slept, again and again and if they could but have shed the burden of duty that weighed ever heavier at their hearts they would have liked to lie down and sleep, sleep until forever in the eternal twilight of dreams in which the muted echo that was darkness perhaps did not seem quite so terrible and...

Aragorn sighed and passed a hand across his eyes. Depression did not befit him, but it seemed to colour everything these days, including his companions. Gimli rode before Legolas, uncharacteristically withdrawn, for not a single complaint had escaped those lips about either Elves or horses, either of which he seemed to enjoy insulting in normal times.

Although he supposed now did not really count as normal times.

His thoughts would stray to the friend he had left behind despite himself, and much as he would like to tell himself that this was for the good of Middle-earth his heart would not listen. _Betrayal,_ it whispered traitorously, _betrayal against the one who would never give you up..._

_But this is war. This is war._

It was the one thought that sustained them now. This was a war for Frodo, for the Fellowship, for Middle-earth. And now it was a war for themselves too, a war for vengeance, a war to satisfy that raging need for revenge that was a warrior's heart within each of them. It was their war. They would not lose it.

The sun was setting, a great majestic sight across the plains, and green glowed red in the wild and wonderful sight.

"Should we not stop for rest?" Legolas' voice broke the long silence between them, and they all recognised the final note in his voice. Their vigil was over, and it was time to move on, set their sights on the horizon so they would not fall to despair. There were things to do, promises to keep. Purpose long-lost was now in the Elf's voice, and all of the Dark Army would not have stopped him.

Aragorn raised his head finally, and he too felt the change in heart. He nodded, and as one they dismounted smoothly, Legolas offering Gimli just the slightest amused smile as the Dwarf landed heavily moments after the two had touched ground. Aragorn was to watch first, and Elf and Dwarf lay themselves down side by side as the stars began to shine.

"Good night, my friends. Hope that morn shall bring brighter tidings to us! Sleep well." And Legolas crossed his hands across his breast, face elvish pale in the growing moonlight. Gimli's ruddy face watched it quietly for some time, before he turned to the silent Man.

"Right fool he is," was softly said that night below the stars, "but none I would rather have." A smile touched the Man's grim lips. "Good night."

The sun set fully, and night settled across Rohan's plains, the stars stretching so far in a huge night sky above him. The thought of another star, one so bright she put all else to shade, made him sigh with mingled love and longing, joy and sorrow. Would he see her again?

Would it matter?

For all his long years of preparation and waiting and hoping for this time, it did not seem enough. For so long he'd waited in the shadows, and now he was out, and everything was moving so fast he found it hard to believe. Sometimes he felt he'd rather go back to the shadows. And yet, not if this was the price for Middle-earth...

But in his heart he knew he was not the one who would pay the price for freedom, long though he had toiled for it. No, the one who would was small and polite and dignified, bearing a scar on his shoulder and a Ring round his neck, somewhere along the road to Mordor... Frodo, so brave, so little. _The one._

In all his musings on how exactly the grand finale to the struggle would come about, he had never considered the inhabitants of the Shire he'd guarded ceaselessly. Why would he? They were gentle, cheerful, charming people, with their little traditions and loves, and he'd fought for them so that he could know that at least in _one _place there were people free of care and strife...

How ironic, that the protected should become the protector.

He sighed and pulled his thoughts away from that direction. Frodo was gone, and he could not do anything to aid him more, loath as he was to admit it. His gaze settled on the proud profile of Legolas, and a smile tugged at his lips. Elf and Dwarf, Leaf and Stone, Bow and Axe... Who would have thought it? Brothers beyond everything set against them.

_They will be the last._

The night air was suddenly so cold. Foresight? He wondered. The last? To die? To surrender? He found it easy to believe either one, knowing the two stubborn hearts...

...When far across the green waves came the unthinkable stench of death and horror, and Aragorn's heart trembled. _Oh, no. Not Rohan. Not the proud and noble and fiery lords with their steeds and their flags flying high, not the Golden Hall and its fading king..._

But Aragorn knew, and _saw._

Smoke rose, in the distance. Smoke of burning corpses, and he knew that these corpses were not orcs. Not orcs. But Men, Men he had once lived amongst, Men strong before the Shadow and steadfast in the dwindling hope, burned to ashes in the dew of approaching dawn. And perhaps amongst those bodies burning far away was one who was not a Man, but who looked like an aged one, grey-cloaked and grey-bearded, a pilgrim lost in the darkness. _No._

_No._

* * *

The first thing Gimli knew was a pair of hands shaking his shoulder gently, yet strongly, a voice calling him out of his dreams of fire and blood. His name was repeated, with a hint of annoyance mixed with concern, and his eyes flew open, exasperation painted on his features, to stare straight into the smug face of an Elf. He opened his mouth, mentally reviewing the list of insults he had prepared for such a time as this-

"Peace," Legolas's voice softened. "Pray do not let us quarrel now." A glance showed the straight, still figure of their human friend staring into the distance. And that was when Gimli registered the smell, the feel, the grief lying beneath Legolas' mischief...

"Rohan," he murmured, and lowered his head. They had set their doom, or rather their king had, the first time he let Wormtongue's whispers penetrate his head, but oh, for the glory that could have been!

He'd been annoyed at that horse-rider who'd so insolently insulted them, but he'd also seen a pride and honour in those eyes that called to him of a kindred spirit, one who would fight and die for his home without hesitation. A warrior worthy of the name. Now he was dead, no doubt fallen fighting bravely, valiantly, a hopeless battle...

And Gandalf.

He shut his eyes in denial. But what was there to think of that was _not_ some terrible end for their friend? Were he not dead already, he would be Saruman's captive, and that would be worse than death, he knew. So many friends he had failed! The two Elves, and Frodo and Sam and Boromir and now Gandalf, lost to their war. The wizard had always seemed so invincible, so powerful against the sorrows that gripped the rest of the world, as if he could not be felled.

And yet he could. Everyone could.

"They were great," Aragorn's voice was soft in the night of blood, and yet it was just another massacre in these deadly days... "They were great once, they could have been again. If they had stood, but darkness and their king drove them to their knees, in the end." He lifted his head, sudden, clear pride in those grey eyes. Memory lay there, buried beneath layers of sorrow and hope, but all of a sudden Gimli knew that Aragorn had lived, once, in Rohan of horse and high pride. In a way, he had lost one more home. And he bowed his head.

"And yet the Rohirrim would fight on their knees before they would surrender. Their story shall be the tragedy that teaches, the death that defies. One day, if we do not submit, perhaps there wil be songs sung of the Horse-lords in their green fields and the Golden Hall of Meduseld in the days of Eorl the Young..."

They stood, three lone silhouettes against the world, and together they mourned the Home of the Horse-lords, fallen that spring night.

* * *

_March 6, T.A. 3019_

Frodo shivered, and pulled his cloak closer around him. It was raining, raining grey droplets across the black soil and rocks. He curled harder into the little crack in the mountainous cliffs that he'd found, and tried not to fall asleep.

He should have been thinking of ways to get past that gate, but it was enough work just not letting his eyes slide shut, and yet he knew what he would see in dreams, and he did _not_ want to see it. Shaking his head suddenly, he sat up again. Noise rose above the pattering of rain, another orc contingent was coming. He'd spent the last day watching the process, and had come to the conclusion that unless he wanted to be trampled underfoot, disappearing into the ranks of orcs was not a good idea. There was no way the cloak was going to make him completely invisible, and a walking rock was going to draw a _lot_ of attention, so that was out of the question, too.

There was always the one thing that _could _make him invisible, but it made him all the more outstanding to the one he was trying to escape, and he did not want to think of using that power again.

He'd woken that night finding himself stroking the Ring, whispering that word over and over again, and he _could not stop. _It scared him so much, that desire. _Well, Frodo, sitting here's not going to help anything, _he told himself firmly, and quietly watched on.

_Another way..._

Perhaps he had been too quick to reject Gollum's offer. _And to kill him, _a traitorous part of his mind whispered bitterly. Another way. What he wouldn't give for one right now! Shifting again, he realised the great gates were closing once more, and with a jolt, that a whole day had passed since that terrible stab that had taken Gollum's life. One day of apathy and weariness and watching the rain.

_No time, Frodo._

Something was burning in his veins, a sudden urgency lit of everything and a ring. He shuddered suddenly, deeply, shaken to the core at the desperation that gripped him, and he must _go_, _I cannot linger..._ Calm.

He must calm. There was no way he was going to accomplish anything throwing himself at the Black Gate. The only ones allowed access were orcs, and he certainly hoped he wasn't one. How does one look like an orc, then?

Armour. Blackness. In general. And an extremely ugly and disfigured face. Well, he could always be an orc with a helmet, if only he could find one, and something that looked reasonably like an orc's clothing.

_You have the Ring._

No.

But he had a dagger.

A very small one, but still, if he had surprise on his side...

_Sweet Eru, save me._

When the next marching troop came along, he was ready. The last straggler, a small, skinny one clearly not paying much attention, and all it took was a yank, a slice, and a quick stab. Again. He'd just killed again, tainting his hands that much more, and what did it matter that it was a creature of evil? It was a_ life._ And he'd ended it.

_War. No pity._

He straightened, schooling his face and mind, and tried not to think about the blood on his hands, as he swiftly stripped the orc of its clothes and donned them over his, shivering at the cold metal of the helmet as he pulled it on.

A very convincing orc, indeed.

In heart, or just in appearance, he couldn't help but wonder wearily, was he slowly turning to blackness as the Ring chipped away at every bit of goodness that had ever lay in his heart? When and if he did reach the mountain, would he even be the Hobbit who'd sworn to destroy the Ring... or yet another slave to it?

_If you don't get there, you'll never find out,_ he told himself, and tears came at how that sounded like Sam.

He could not think of that, not now. Poised at the edge of a cliff, as if all that had come before was but preparation for this moment, this leap, this step into Mordor...

He took it.

Blending seamlessly into the rabble of orcs, making his voice harsh and gravelly and pushing and shoving ruthlessly, and always, always keeping his helmet down. It was surprisingly easy, leaving traces of unease in his heart, but he would not question circumstances as they were. The company was moving towards the Tower, and he shuddered at the thought of entering that place holding the Ring-

No, he could always get away before that, he reassured himself, albeit doubtfully.

* * *

The years seemed to mean nothing, nothing at all, when once again he saw the glint of white across the horizon, one city rising out of the endless green plains, whispering of honour and pride and blood and love and _home_. Minas Tirith could have been as he had first seen it, as Captain of Rohan turned to soldier of Gondor once he crossed the boundary, and he felt like Thorongil for the first time in so many years.

But this time there was no Rohan behind him, and Gondor was so much more desperate.

And this time, it was not Ecthelion who held the Steward's rod, but Denethor. Denethor, who loved Boromir so much, who had always been suspicious of Thorongil... He sighed. Well, perhaps the time had come to finally enter Gondor on his own terms, in his own self. Something about the whole thing still seemed wrong to him, but he resolutely ignored the unease lurking in his heart. Yes, it was time.

"It is magnificent indeed," Gimli's gruff voice broke his reverie suddenly, and he glanced over in surprise at the rough edge of sorrow to his tone. "Boromir told me of it, once," the Dwarf added softly, "one of the first nights. I wonder..."

"Gimli?"

A smile flickered on Gimli's face. "We spoke to each other, I of Moria, he of Minas Tirith. Well, he got to see Dwarrowdelf, and now I am honoured by the sight of the White City."

They looked upon the city from a distance for a moment, each quietly repeating their farewell to Gondor's beloved leader, before they spurred their horses on, to whatever awaited.

He wondered if perhaps they'd been a little too optimistic as they entered the gates. The guards looked tired, ragged and worn, as if they had seen too much and done too much and fought too much, and sorrow welled in his heart as he watched their eyes, so devoid of hope.

"Who seeks audience with Lord Denethor?"

"Allies of Gondor," Aragorn returned. "We bring urgent tidings of Rohan. Your lord may be unwilling to see us, but allow me to assure you that he will regret it if he does not." The guard blinked, looking so bewildered that Aragorn felt sorry for him- he was a young man, hardly out of boyhood, and he wondered what this meant about Gondor- they were letting green recruits guard the doors of the Citadel?

The boy- he could hardly call him otherwise- hesistated, then something proud came into his eyes. "I will let you pass, strangers, but if you bring evil to my Lord, _you will _regret it." With that, he pushed the doors open, calling out, "Three strangers to see Lord Denethor!"

"Even if we did not, evil already has Gondor," Legolas murmured sadly, looking calmly at the boy, who wavered again, then looked down, but not before Aragorn caught the glimpse of sorrow nad agreement in his eyes. Perhaps this boy was not so young after all.

The hall was as he had left it, all those years ago, and he could almost have thought that it was- Denethor looked so much like his father!- but no, it was darker, in a way profoundly and painfully obvious, for Ecthelion had never crouched over a broken horn with such a desperately grieved expression.

And Ecthelion had never looked so much like a comrade fallen, against all odds, in honour.

He cast a careful glance about him. Legolas and Gimli wore identical expressions of doubt and hope, and he could almost see the thought forming in their heads: If Denethor loved his son so much, surely he could not be a bad man.

_We will soon find out._

"Lord Denethor, greetings!"

A pause. Then the man raised his head, deliberately slowly, and stared into his eyes. He saw in the tumultous depths fear and anger, and a hint of recognition and anger. Denethor rose.

"Captain."

Aragorn sighed. Well, he had hardly been expecting the shrewd, intelligent mind of Denethor to have somehow evaporated in the years that lay between then and now, but it would have made things so much easier. It was now time to assure Denethor that the suspicion he'd long held was, in fact, correct.

"I am he, or I once was. And yet, my lord, there may come a day when you will hail me by a different name, one you have long known." He held Denethor's gaze. "But those are matters of secondary importance. I bring tidings of Rohan, and alas, they are not good! The home of the horse-lords has fallen, lord, to Saruman and no doubt behind him Sauron. Do not look to Rohan for help! It will not avail you."

Denethor tensed. "How is this possible?" Came the sharp cry, a moment of pure shock before he collected himself. He never would assert a "You lie!" as his son would have, Aragorn mused, no, Denethor, Steward of Gondor, had not kept Mordor at bay for decades through lack of self-control.

"Your claim is doubtful," was the calm statement. "Last I saw, Rohan was struggling, but certainly not falling. Théoden-King would not lead his people to a fall such as this!"

"He would not have, lord," Aragorn agreed softly. "But at the end he was not himself, and so Rohan is beyond our help. But turn your eyes to your own city! Isengard has Rohan, now Mordor advances on the last free realm of Men. Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, I come to ask. What will you do?"

Denethor's lips tightened. "You will have to give me a more comprehensive account of how this came to pass, before I accept any claim of yours, _Captain._" That emphasis was no accident, Aragorn reflected dryly. No, Denethor meant to remind him forcefully that for now this was Captain and Steward, and Steward held the higher rank.

"Very well," he agreed, and began the tale of Rohan's lost glory.

* * *

Grief was cold, like a blade of ice that lodged itself in his heart and would not let go. He pressed a hand to the jagged edge of the horn, and wept for his son.

It had only been a journey! How could Boromir have survived battle after battle after battle, blood and warfare and defence, laying down so much for his city, only to perish in some forsaken land, far from everything that he had loved? Defending a small one that would have died anyway? In service to another little being carrying that which could be Gondor's salvation to be _destroyed?_

His anger had grown day upon day at watching Boromir's loyalty to the little one grow, and worse, his acceptance to the dark-haired Man who would claim the throne. Had everything he had taught Boromir been in vain?

And yet, no matter how disappointed he had been that Boromir had opened his heart to Hobbits and long-lost heirs, he was still his _son. And his son was dead._

Dead.

"Three strangers to see Lord Denethor!" He frowned at the cry- Could he not have an hour to himself to grieve for his son? The answer, he thought darkly, lip curling, was _no. _Of course not. Osgiliath was wavering, the city guard was faltering, they were all on the edge of doom... No, Gondor's Steward could hope for no rest.

"Lord Denethor, greetings!"

_What?_

He raised his head inch by inch, to meet the grey eyes of one he hated almost as much as Sauron, and yet respected far more, too. Thorongil had always been a puzzle, ever polite and calm and dignified, and so infuriating because of that. He resented his father's preference for the captain as much as he admired his leadership, and he had never been so glad as the day Thorongil disappeared to the north again.

And now he was back.

"Captain." The word was measured, firm. It served both as a confirmation and a reminder that for now, Thorongil was a captain of Gondor, no more. Or should he say _Aragorn?_

Denethor frowned inwardly and lifted his chin. No matter what claim this _heir_ had to make, it would not, could not, be sufficient. He had given everything to Gondor, including his sons. What could be a greater sacrifice than that? And now one of them had paid the price.

The next moment, he forgot all about that.

Rohan.

This was impossible.

He sat silently through Thorongil's account of the happenings that led to Rohan's downfall, and part of his heart cried for the proud hearts of Rohan, but the larger part was concerned with his own country. Now that Rohan had fallen, both Sauron and Saruman would turn their attention to Gondor, and they could not look to Rohan for aid.

They would have to weather this alone.

And _that_ was completely, utterly ridiculous. Any four-year-old child could tell that against Mordor, with no hope or allies in sight, Gondor _would fall._

But if it had to fall, he could at least make it a glorious fall.

Denethor smiled.


	15. Chapter 15

Apologies for the wait, and hope you enjoy!

* * *

_March 6th, T.A. 3019_

It was, Gandalf decided, surprising just how quickly one's feelings about certain places could change, swinging easily from one side to the other like some bizarre pendulum. A few months ago, he had been utterly convinced of the safety and security of Isengard, as well as of the good intentions and worthiness of its master. Now, however, his opinion of said tower, and its master, had plummeted rather drastically.

_Drip._ He glared darkly at the droplets of undoubtedly dirty water slowly accumulating into a puddle. Reduced to watching dripping water...

He sighed. Well, he probably wasn't experiencing the best of Isengard's hospitality. More accurately, he was in a dungeon. A cold, dank, dark one.

Leaning his head wearily against the wall, he pondered the events of the past few days once more. Rohan had fallen, the pride of the horse-lords no more, but now was not the time for grief. But how would this affect the other realms of Middle-earth, he wondered? Gondor had been on the edge of calling for Rohan's aid, but now there was no hope for that.

Now that Saruman had secured Rohan, Sauron would turn his full attention to the one last stalwart tower standing.

_Drip._

Gondor was in mortal peril. But hadn't it already been for years? Yes, Boromir's city had been struggling for so long already, stubbornly clinging to the fingerhold that they had in the south and slowly but surely draining themselves of everything. Their ranks were dwindling, their brave men falling one by one by one- it would not be long, he thought, before Sauron could storm into Minas Tirith and all he would find would be bereft women and scared children.

_Drip._

And that was exactly Sauron's plan.. to rip away every last resort that Gondor could possibly have called upon, and then to strike. Child's play. Child's play, to take the last free city of Men.

After that it would truly begin, the Dark Age, Sauron's reign. Who would fall first, the Elves or the Dwarves? Perhaps the Dwarves. They had fought for so long. Or Mirkwood, never again to be called Greenwood? But... no.

No, the first to fall would be the strongest of all, stripped of their defenses. Rivendell, and Lothlórien, without the Rings of their lord and lady, would fall to ruin. And then? Would the Dark Lord set his sights across the sea? To the land of white shores, the untouchable, the paradise, the eternity of the Eldar? _To my home?_

The whole of Middle-earth he had travelled, but, oh Eru, Valinor was _home. _

_Drip._

Surely... surely there was _some_ way out of this seemingly hopeless maze, even if the tiny, flickering light was carried by the fragile hand of a little hobbit, somewhere out there.

In the meantime, others strove in defence of Middle-earth. Had the three escaped? If they had not, he would surely have seen them here, or sensed their presence... He hoped they had the sense to make for Gondor, which they probably would- there was nowhere else to go, after all. But even _that_ gave rise to a whole host of other problems, prominant among which was one called Denethor.

From the Steward's point of view, Gandalf supposed his resentment of his old rival made sense. Thorongil had turned up one day, humble and unassuming and always polite, and at the same time a forceful leader and kind man- an utter enigma, to young Denethor then. That Ecthelion had favoured the captain over his own son had not helped matters, and there had always been the glint in Denethor's eyes that hinted that he knew the truth about Gondor's beloved captain. If said captain were to return after so long, looking as if hardly ten years had gone by...

_Drip._

-It would simply confirm the Steward's suspicions. Add that Aragorn would come bearing news of his son's death... It would be fortunate if Denethor restrained himself enough not to throw the man into the deepest dungeon at hand.

But Gondor needed Aragorn. He had never been so utterly convinced of anything before, except perhaps that small matter of two small hobbits going on the Quest... But no, he would not think of might-have-beens now, in the middle of a war. Yes, Gondor needed hope, and its bearer, its King to be their figurehead, their hero, one who could stand before them and call them all to the same cause, to unite under one banner and make one final stand...

His thoughts were altogether too depressing right now, he thought wryly. Final, indeed.

-And Aragorn had walked such a hard, terrible road to get here, one marked by shadows and thanklessness and weariness, and if all that he had hoped and worked and strove for these long years was so brutally snatched away Gandalf's opinion of the Valar's sense of justice would be severely dented.

_Drip._

Perhaps there was valour left in the men of Gondor. But even if there was, what of it? Honour could only go so far, and when set against the might of Mordor it was a paltry defence. All they would achieve by their courage, their painful, brilliant courage before the Shadow, would be a glorious death. No, all their hopes now rode on the thin shoulders of one small being now treading the darkest paths of all...

And if he did it, oh, if he _did_ it and bought the salvation of the world by his blood and tears and wounds, would he ever heal? Would the brilliant blue eyes ever be set alight by a sunset or a good book or the love of friends?

And if he did it, if he came back, his dearest friend would not be there.

_Drip._

Sam. One more that he'd failed, one more thing that he couldn't do. Samwise, who was so, so loyal, even and unto the boundaries of death. Sam, a hobbit fallen amongst corpses and blood and men's battle, in a place so far from the home he'd loved...

Valar, how could this be fair, how could this be the way the dice was cast? Frodo was a _Hobbit, _sweet Eru, a Hobbit. He was made for green fields and small hobbit-holes and dreaming about adventure in safety and comfort, built for laughter and sunshine and mischief in an idyllic Shire that he'd fought so hard to protect. He was never meant to be tainted so by such a thing of darkness, never meant to have lost the one he loved as a brother in a war they should not have been in, was never meant to have to save a world that was too broken for anyone to salvage...

But Frodo was one more in a long line of things that should _not,_ in any remote sense of justice, have happened- yet did. The Valar had a twisted sense of humour. Or perhaps Eru hadn't quite forgiven Men for Elenna-nórë yet, and had decided that he might as well punish the rest of the world while he was at it.

What a lovely thought.

_Drip._

Soft footsteps seemed startlingly loud in the drip-punctuated silence, and Gandalf did his best not to look interested. It evidently wasn't working, judging by the small smile that curled the lips of the White Wizard, who crooked a finger in a gesture so small Gandalf couldn't decide whether to be flattered or insulted- on the one hand, it meant Saruman judged his intelligence high enough to glean enough information from that movement, on the other, it meant he was, well, insignificant enough not to warrant larger effort.

In a moment, he decided that he didn't really care, because judging by the ominous beat of Saruman's steps, it was soon to be the least of his concerns.

* * *

_March 7th, T.A. 3019_

It was so _hot._

So unbelievably hot. Perhaps on Caradhras' peaks he'd sworn never to complain about heat again, but this was rather an extreme way for the gods to test his claim, he thought darkly. The very ground was baking beneath his feet, he was sure of it. He could even feel it through the iron boots he'd stolen from that orc!

He shivered. It was disconcerting, being boiled on the outside and chilled on the inside by a force so irresistably strong that it was impossible to fight it. He was convinced that one day soon the ice growing in his heart was going to overtake _everything_, and then what would he be?

Perhaps delirious, as he definitely was now, if he was thinking about such things.

He _was_ rather hot to the touch, when his hand casually brushed his forehead- but then, so was everything else, so that was hardly a good gauge. And he was tired, so deeply tired that it seemed every step he might keel over and lie there forever, disappearing into the hot earth and blending with soil to become-

No. No, no, no, no, no.

He grimaced beneath the helmet. He had no idea where they were going, but there was the ash-spewing tip of Mount Doom in the distance, so that had to be the right direction. Suppose they turned off this path, he wondered? He had better start planning how to get out of this before they got sent on some evil mission to some other land- he was very sure that the only thing keeping him upright was the burning need to get to that mountain and finish this, and he wasn't certain that his will could bear him that much longer.

He wanted it so much.

_It_ was something indefinable about the Ring, something about firelight glancing off gold or enticing words set alight by heat or the pulsing power that lay at its heart, something so very beautiful that it scared him and lured him at the same time. It was burning a circle into his chest, every second that went by questioning what it was doing around his neck and not on his hand, so that he and it would be one and the same, joined together forever-

No.

Shoulders slumped beneath thick armour. There was only so much telling himself that negative would do, and its limits were being reached very, very soon. He must get to that mountain _now,_ but wishing for a teleporter had never done anyone much good.

This quest was beginning to become a test of impulsiveness, he reflected with a dark frown. He highly doubted that he was going to get the chance to ruminate over his options and weigh each one out with logical and practical method, so it was going to be a case of see-a-chance-and-take-it.

Wonderful.

It was bad, he observed gloomily, how very cynical he was becoming. But then, if it was a toss-up between being cynical and being a twisted black pulsing mess of emotion and desire and hate and love, he'd choose cynicism any day, and since that w_as_ pretty much the choice he had before him... Yes, dark humour was far better than the alternative.

This whole thing, in fact, was a matter of choice, most of them quicker than he would have preferred. It was, therefore, a given that when the host paused for a while as the leaders conferred, that since there was such a convenient-looking stone-carved passage leading off in the general direction of the red tip in the distance, that he would swallow, clench his fists and _go._

He regretted it the next moment- this path was incredibly _dark._ In fact, it might better be described as _pitch black._ An irrational fear began to rise- it wasn't very reassuring not to be able to see your own hand when you waved it in front of what you assumed was your face, since you couldn't see anything and therefore couldn't be sure.

He shut his eyes- not that he could tell the difference- and breathed as deeply as his wildly pounding heart would allow. _If you can't see anything, neither can the orcs,_ he thought hopefully, although he had in fact no idea whether the eyesight of evil creatures was on par with his._ If they can't see anything, they can't see you._

But the fact still remained that he didn't know where to go, couldn't _see_ to figure out where to go, and didn't even know which direction he was facing now- he might just stumble out of the very same crack he'd slipped in through.

..._Still brighter, when night is about you..._

_...When all other lights go out. *_

Hope began to flicker in the depths of his heart, and maybe, maybe, if he could see his way here then he could see a way out of this whole colossal mess, and he dug his hand deep into his pocket and drew out the light of Eärendil...

And, oh, the cavern was lit with a light so pure and holy, he suddenly could not imagine that there could be such a thing as a world without hope. It was dark and dirty and stinking with evil, but in the midst of it all the phial glowed with an immeasurable radiance, and all he could think was _thank you, lady, oh, thank you, Lady Galadriel._

The way forward was through a hole that looked blacker than night, but he gripped the star light closer and stepped forward and he knew he carried all the love and hope of the Elves with him.

* * *

_March 8th, T.A. 3019_

It was high noon when it happened- disrupting his extremely calm and civilised conversation with the Dwarf. He had, of course, no objection whatsoever to anything interrupting that short, annoying creature, but he would have preferred a far more peaceful way of doing it.

It had been in the middle of one of the Dwarf's sentences- to be precise, the one beginning with "If you do not apologise right now, and preferably accompany that gesture with throwing yourself of the highest parapet available, I swear I will-"

Perhaps it was coarse of them to be joking about death so callously when it surrounded them- Gondor's soldiers were dying so _fast_, and it seemed to blatantly unfair to Legolas that their already short lives should be made even shorter- but they were _warriors, _and laughing about all their blood and danger was the only way to keep their sanity.

So it was that the Dwarf's threat was cut off by the Steward of Gondor, who burst into the room with a dark sphere in hand and hurled it to the ground with a formidable sound of glass hitting marble- and _not breaking._

Something settled heavily in his chest, the warrior's intuition that was right now screaming at him that things were going very wrong indeed. Denethor's eyes shone with a strange passion, his body tensed as if... as if...

Legolas winced. _As if he just lost everything._

Denethor scanned the room for a moment, before pinning Gimli under his oddly powerful gaze. "Where is your _ranger_?"

Legolas groaned inwardly. _As if he just lost everything and found someone to blame for it._

And then Aragorn fulfilled all Legolas' expectations of his absolutely impeccable timing and appeared in the doorway, looking faintly bewildered as to what a palantír was doing on the floor with a crazed-looking Steward beside it, along with an annoyed Dwarf and a resigned Elf.

"Here I am, my lord. Did you require something?"

_Yes, your head. Preferably separated from your body. Do you have a whit of sense in your mind at all? _Legolas decided ruefully that obviously Men were neither telepathic nor intelligent, and prepared himself to restrain someone. Beside him, Gimli was eyeing Aragorn with the sort of expression which all but bellowed 'You idiot' coupled with a few Dwarven vulgarities. Legolas sighed. Chaos.

Denethor turned wild eyes on the Man. As he advanced, Legolas tensed, but Denethor stopped about a foot from Aragorn, something burning in his gaze. In it Legolas read a thousand sorrows, and suddenly he didn't feel quite so wont to be cynical. The Steward had, after all, just lost his son.

"So," Denethor's voice was suddenly icy, controlled, but quivering with potential to explode messily. "This is your plan, my _Captain?_ To come with the dawn as Sauron's troops march upon Gondor and give _hope?_" His voice was still low, an incongruity to his fury. "And as Gondor's Steward lost both sons and all hope, you would take the throne amidst the people's blind relief?"

Legolas choked back a cry. _Both sons. _Aragorn's lips parted, but he thought better of whatever he was going to say, and kept silent.

Denethor laughed, a rough, desperate sound that grated on Legolas' ears. "I regret to inform you that you _will fail_. What Northen heir could hope to combat the force of Mordor? Die in the knowledge that neither you, not anyone shall ever reclaim the Kingship of Gondor, and the Steward's Rod shall break before the last stand! Like the Kings of old I shall burn, and bring hell and molten doom upon the last Steward of Gondor. Keep your hope, heir of Isildur! It will not avail you."

A long silence took the hall. Gimli's face was turning redder by the moment, and Legolas had the uncomfortable feeling that the Dwarf was going to start spitting fire like some miniature dragon before long. Denethor, he concluded, had gone utterly mad. And yet...

A palantír. He knew what he was talking about. Was it, could it be true? Denethor's other son was dead? He swallowed convulsively and tried, _tried so hard_ not to think of Boromir's wide brown eyes and the pure love in them when he spoke of his little brother. _Never._

And then the rest of reality decided to catch him up, and he choked on his own rising bile. _Burn. _

There was something so final, so wild about that word, something strong and desperate. It raced about his veins, catching fire, and he shut his eyes and watching fire burn patterns on his eyelids. Then his brain registered everything and his eyes flew open-

Denethor stood in the doorway, clawing hands and throat working, the very image of madness, laughing. Legolas stumbled back, chilled. There was something so inhuman about that sound, as if Denethor's spirit was working its way out of him already. He swallowed, wondering if anything was going to get through to the man now, and (darkly) if he even wanted to stop him. If Denethor wanted to die, then let him go ahead and die- he was absolutely right, it was probably going to happen very soon anyway. But-

"_Silence."_

-And there he was. Gondor's King. Standing there wearily, but stubbornly, head held high against the blazing sun outside. _That, _Legolas thought as he choked back a gasp of pure wonder, was _Estel. _Middle-earth's hope, rising against the darkness in the East... _What does the King command?_

Aragorn strode to Denethor's side as the old man lowered his hands and straightened, sudden malice leaping again in his wild eyes. But his King said nothing, merely took him by the shoulders and stared into his eyes, seemingly unafraid, although Denethor's hands were twitching- he looked ready to strangle him there and then, and Legolas had to clamp down hard on the instinct to just sink an arrow in his chest.

He took a breath and kept his hands by his side. No. This was between the Steward and his potential supplanter, and it was _not_ for him to interfere.

No matter how tempting it was.

He exchanged a wry look with the Dwarf at his side- Gimli's hands were quivering, hovering just off his axe- but he was restraining himself. They shook their heads simultaneously at the Man, who took no notice.

The two seemed to be locked in some unearthly struggle, their bodies tensed and utterly still. Denethor broke their staring contest, quickly glancing down before returning his gaze to his rival's face. Aragorn did not move.

"Speak!" Denethor erupted finally, and Legolas caught a flash of sanity cross his eyes.

"You are Gondor's Steward," Aragorn's words were calm, measured, and the exact opposite of Denethor's heated tone. "And the people will look to you for leadership, if for nothing else. What will they see?"

Denethor was silent, his cold gaze still searing into Aragorn.

"A fire? Lord Denethor, will they see you burn?" There was no answer. Madness flickered across Denethor's face again, and Legolas sighed as the man refused to meet Aragorn's eyes, choosing instead to glare past him at the wall as if the evils of the world were written on it. Aragorn remained still for a moment, then in a movement so quick that even Legolas hardly caught it, he stepped to the side to meet Denethor's gaze squarely.

"They will _not,_ my Lord. They will look and they will see their Steward preparing for war. With strength, with determination, with _hope_. Even if without sons. Are we in agreement?"

Legolas smiled, the slightest curve of his lips. Yes, that was the King he saw, even if without a crown. But one day...

Denethor's face was tight, but the lucidity had returned, and there was clarity there. Heaving a sigh of relief, Legolas waited. He was not disappointed. No, Denethor was no fool, and there was genuine respect he saw there in the depths of the Steward's heart. He bowed.

"We are... my lord." Then Denethor was gone, in a swirl of grey robes.

"Well," Typical, Legolas thought as Gimli's dry voice broke the silence, "that was... interesting."

"That's one way of putting it," Aragorn observed, equally dryly.

"It is not," Legolas replied flatly. "That was not interesting at all. It was unnerving. He might just lose his reason again, and you may not be able to stop him then."

"True," Aragorn returned. "But what would you have me do, kill him? Not a good idea." Gimli's bark of laughter sounded extremely out of place, but despite themselves the smallest hints of laughter appeared on his taller companions' faces.

"No," Legolas conceded grudgingly. "But I still don't like it."

"Neither do I," Aragorn replied softly. "And I enjoy the thought that Faramir is dead even less. But he..." The Man's eyes widened suddenly. "The palantír!"

It lay still on the floor, looking extraordinarily normal. "I assume that no one feels a particular inclination to touch that?" Legolas restrained himself from rolling his eyes, but apparently not enough, since Gimli sent him a dark look.

Aragorn said nothing, but he looked at the sphere with a decided mix of doubt, concern and knowledge. Legolas frowned, feeling reasonably certain that this was going to be a disaster- or at the very least, end up with someone looking into that thing and seeing things no one _should _see.

"It is mine."

He knew it.

But Aragorn sounded almost... resigned, not, in any way, happy to be claiming his legacy. "The stone of Minas Tirith... yes, another unfortunate bequeathing choice of my ancestors." His lips twisted in a wry smirk. "Do not look so horrified," he added to Legolas as an afterthought, "I have no intention of looking into it. But I will keep it. Who knows..."

"No one," Gimli broke in, sounding rather annoyed, "and no one _should. _Do not chance to look upon it, my friend. We were never meant to see the future- things beyond our ken."

"A miracle has occurred," Legolas announced loudly. The two turned to look at him questioningly, and he smiled. "I agree with the stunted one."

Gimli seemed to choke, and looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be pleased that Legolas had finally admitted that he was right or to be angered at the name he'd so kindly bestowed upon him. Aragorn was half-laughing as well, but neither Dwarf nor Elf missed the look in his eyes as he covered the dark orb with a cloth and left, making his excuses.

They stood, two unlikely friends at the end of an age, alone in the great hall.

* * *

Reviews, please? Next chapter should be up in a week or so!


	16. Chapter 16

Thanks to all reviewers and readers. I think this must be pretty much the first chapter which is actually posted at the time I said it would be, but an honest thanks to everyone who's hung around to read this!

* * *

_March 9th, T.A. 3019_

Frodo stumbled.

Again.

He bit his lip- again- and winced as he felt the tender flesh give way beneath his worrying teeth, and he tasted the salt of blood on his tongue. He was so _tired. _This cavern seemed to go on forever, and he didn't even know if he was going in the right direction anymore- it took enough effort to place one foot in front of the other. So tired.

So small.

When everything else was so vast- the tower, the mountain, the gates, and he was just a speck on the landscape... How could one so small hope to achieve anything? -_Put it on and you'll grow._

Shuddering, he clamped his teeth down again, relishing the pain in his lips as a point to focus on. Blood. The taste of it. His lips trembling. The soft, distant pounding of hammers. The guttural cries of orcs. The whisper of his footsteps. The whisper of- of _it._

_Beyond anything. Beyond anything._

He forced a wrenching sob down his throat angrily, swiping at his wet cheeks with his dirty sleeve- he could practically hear Sam's timid rebuke in his head- _Now, Mr. Frodo, that sleeve's dirty, here's a kerchief- _and tried to ignore everything in his head. If it wasn't the Ring it was memories, and he didn't want to think about that any more than the thing around his neck, because all it did was make him feel lonely, so devastatingly alone in this black land.

Because the Sam's hand on his shoulder and Gandalf's warm smile seemed so _far away _here, and were they even alive still? What had the Fellowship done after he'd left? Oh, he prayed Gandalf hadn't let them come after him, for he'd never forgive himself if they followed him _here-_

_But you could save them-_

No, no, he couldn't. He couldn't do anything except go on, _go on,_ reach that damned lava-spitting mountain and rid himself of this whispering temptation as fast as possible. He couldn't have saved anyone, not Elladan, not Boromir, _not Gollum, oh not Gollum._

_Yes, you could. I can do anything. Beyond-_

The air was a little lighter here, and he could breathe easier than in the thick air deeper in the tunnels. _When in doubt, follow your nose. _

I will, he swore, as he picked up pace a little, and soon was rewarded with the glimpse of light. Silhouettes passed across, and he hurled himself to the side in a panic, before remembering what he was wearing. He drew in a deep breath. _I'm an orc. I'm an orc. I'm an orc. Act like an orc._

He stumbled into the sunlight with a loud curse, and looked around as casually as his nerves could manage. He could see the smoking tip of his goal, looking considerably larger than it had- _good._ Then a hand fell on his shoulder, and he tried not to scream as he turned.

An orc- a captain?- stood before him, raking him with unfriendly eyes. Holding his breath, he glared back, attempting to look as annoyed as possible.

"Scrawny, aren't you?" The orc snarled, giving him a little push- it took all he had to keep himself standing, and as his breath quickened fear settled in his gut. Was he so weak already?

"Mind yer own business," he snapped back, reasonably sure that most orcs didn't like being called that. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted to do was start a fight-

The orc glared at him, but moved off to yell at someone else, and he nearly sagged with relief.

Now he had a chance to examine the place. It seemed he'd walked right into the orc's resting place- there were camps set up around the large valley, crudely made but workable. The creatures were walking about, mostly to a stream to get water, he surmised from the buckets they bore, and arguing along the way. He watched wide-eyed as fights broke up all over the place- and were stopped swiftly, by slightly taller orcs who looked extremely bored. They'd obviously been doing this for some time.

His eyes slid to what he was more interested in: an exit. There were three paths leading off, not counting the passage he'd come out of, but having no way of finding out which one led where, he sighed softly and took the one leading in the vague direction of- of Mount Doom.

The name had never sounded more ominous as he rounded a corner, and practically collapsed against the wall, panting heavily. He was so weary, in body and soul, and he knew he _knew _it would not be that much more time before he fell-

_Won't you come to me? I will make you strong. Beyond anything._

But he wouldn't he would rather throw himself off the nearest high place than do that- he _wouldn't_ betray everyone who'd given so much to see him here- wouldn't dishonour Sam and Gandalf and Strider and the Fellowship and _everyone-_

He clung to the rough wall, and for the first time, under his breath, he began to pray- to Elbereth, to Estë, to Eru himself. Simple words, with nothing to them- to only let him do this, give him strength, bear him there, save the world, don't let them die... And he didn't even know who he was referring to, just that he didn't want anyone to die but people already had and he was so, so tired.

_Make you strong._

No.

_-Anything._

But Frodo Baggins had come across the world to reach this spot, and he wasn't dying here. Not yet.

_Not yet._

* * *

_March 10th, T.A. 3019_

Men, Gimli had concluded decisively, were all of one mind: complete and utter lunatics. he'd initially thought that it was only Aragorn- but no, on this (rare) occasion, he was wrong. It was their entire race. With a few Elves thrown in.

Ah, speak- of think- of the devil. Here came that Elf, sauntering along innocently as if he had no idea of Gimli's annoyance. The Dwarf speared the oblivious Elf with his best ice glare, to minimal effect. He sighed.

The Elf started to whistle.

His face slowly turning red, he tried to keep his hands down. No killing the Elf. No killing the Elf. He's a friend. He's a friend. Of sorts. No killing the Elf. You musn't kill the Elf. Wouldn't be friendly at all.

And _now _the... creature, for he wouldn't insult Lady Galadriel by calling his companion by the name of her race, decided to acknowledge his presence, turning to him with a bright smile on his lips.

"Good day, Gimli!"

He ground his teeth.

And sighed. Humour wouldn't mask this situation any longer, they both knew it. "Legolas, he is still refusing to listen."

A slight shrug, the slim shoulders lifting. "He is stubborn."

"Yes, but this is no time to be stubborn! If you think Lord Denethor is anywhere near to the leader that Gondor needs, pray go and commit suicide messily! Gondor needs _hope, _Legolas, and she needs her King, who absolutely refuses to reveal himself! Not yet, he says! Bide your time! Patience! Wait for the right time! Well, Gimli the Dwarf says: _Pah!"_

He glared darkly at the... creature, who was grinning in unashamed amusement. "Calm yourself, my friend. Aragorn is right. It is not the time to start conflict with the Steward."

"Yes, yes, I know, I've heard it all before." He dropped dejectedly into a seat. "Which is all very well, but how long can these men wait, Legolas? Their spirit is being sucked from them day by day, their eyes growing emptier at every hour that passes us by, and... and I know what would fill them again."

"So do I, Gimli," Legolas returned softly. "So do I. But not now."

"Well, all right." He conceded reluctantly. "Then there is this ridiculous idea in the heads of those Citadel guards! They seem to think that someone's going to come and save them like some avenging angel! Light the beacons, they say! Rohan will come! Théoden will save us! They are deluding themselves into false security, and when Sauron comes he will crush them like a butterfly beneath his iron fist! And still they-"

"Gimli," Legolas interrupted quietly. "They need to believe- that someone will save them. They're just half-grown _boys, _most of them and they need hope so much. And-"

"Well, _hope_ is here! Just that he won't let anyone know!"

"You are going in circles," A faintly amused voice interjected from the doorway, but he subsided when pinned with two annoyed glares. "Truly, Gimli, Legolas, there is no point in arguing any longer. I will not reveal myself and Gimli will not stop pointlessly bickering-" Said Dwarf let out an affronted huff- "So we might as well accept that there will be no peace in this place, Legolas, my friend."

The Elf laughed warmly, and-

A man burst into the room, eyes wide with fear. "My lords! Where is the Steward? Riders approach! Fell beasts-" He trailed off, talking to the backs of three people sprinting in the direction of the second level from which they could view the surrounding fields.

Fell beasts.

Gimli was trying his best not to think about just what could be out there, and when he did-

"The rider you unhorsed on the river has a mount again, Legolas," Aragorn's soft, sad voice broke into his consciousness. "And he will spare no one."

They watched, speechless with horror and helplessness, the ravaging of the group of riders, who were still riding desperately for the safety of the city, as if there was any hope at all... He sighed and turned away as the first Nazgûl took his prey. They could hear the cries from here. Mahal's beard, the screams...

"Aragorn?" He spun round at Legolas' startled voice. The Man was gripping the wall so hard they could clearly see his knuckles, white in the sunlight, and when Legolas pried his hands off they were bloody from cutting into the stone. "Aragorn! What is it?"

"Osgiliath," he whispered. "The soldiers from Osgiliath. Eru, Denethor was right. Faramir-"

"_My son!"_ The raw, cracked voice pierced the air like a knife, and Gimli felt his heart twist brutally as Gondor's Steward flew out and practically crashed against the stone, for he had eyes only for one thing.

A single rider, at the head of the group, hair blowing in the wind as he raced forward, and silver sword raised, glinting, in the air, as if he could do battle with the Rider with his blade and his courage, riding, riding, as behind him men fell and died, and he swung his horse- Denethor let out a hoarse, terrible cry- and rode back, refusing to abandon his soldiers to the bitter end-

Legolas' hand clamped down on Gimli's shoulder like a vice, long fingers gripping desperately into him. Beside him, Aragorn had returned to clutching the wall as they all watched the massacre unfold before their eyes.

"Guards! Ride out! Go! _Guards! _To them! Muster the army! _Ride!"_ It was Denethor, shouting at the scared-looking young soldier helplessly holding out a spear, eyes lit with fury and fear. The boy spun, but Aragorn leapt forward with a cry of _no._ His hand fell on the youth's shoulder, and he shook his head wordlessly, his dread-filled eyes conveying the message he'd never wanted to tell one so young: _no hope. No hope for them. _

Denethor screamed, a sound horribly desolate, and flew forward in a blind rage, tackling Aragorn to the ground in a rush of sudden strength. The boy- what else could Gimli call him?- stumbled back, a dazed, terrified expression on the innocent face as he watched his lords wrestle on the ground, and Gimli and Legolas ran forward as well, wrenching Denethor off Aragorn. The Man screeched wildly and struggled, arms flailing, as he was dragged off and swiftly pinned by an Elf's relentless strength, till finally he hung there, spent, crazed eyes still darting everywhere, but there was nothing and his son was damned so _why_-?

In a quick twist he lurched forward, pulling Legolas along, and stumbled back to the edge, staring blindly out, and perhaps he could tell Faramir's blood from the crimson life-liquid mingling on the field, and finally in a father's unhinged sorrow turned away and collapsed bonelessly to the rough ground.

The whole world faded to silence, punctuated by the shrieks of the Nazgûl and the cries of dying men, as they panted and stared blankly at the unmoving body on the ground. Gimli slowly yanked his gaze from Denethor's still figure, examining his companions. The boy looked to be in shock, for he was alternating frightened stares from the field to his Steward, no comprehension in his gaze, merely fear. And he was too young for this, too young to see Black Riders- Black Fliers, now they'd taken to the sky? Gimli choked back an inane laugh- too young.

Legolas was at Aragorn's side, gripping the Man's arm in silent support, as he looked upon Denethor, and Gimli caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes before he looked down wearily.

Gimli swallowed violently, resolutely pushing back the sudden need to turn his face to the wind and mourn for everything, and knelt at Denethor's side, tentatively pushing the Man's head back a little to see his face. It was slack, pale and drawn with pain and grief, hollowed by years of guarding Gondor... Despite himself, Gimli felt a spark of respect for the man before him. No matter what he'd done, this man had kept Gondor from falling when the tide was too strong for anyone to hold back, and that Gimli could admire.

He gained his feet slowly, suddenly feeling a weariness he could not place. It was near the end, something deep inside told him, and soon there would be no need for him to fight anymore, no need to wield that axe of his and sink it into so many, many hearts.

"Bring him to his rooms and make sure no one disturbs him," he told the young soldier tiredly, before turning away. The world turned. Out there the Riders had finished savaging the band of soldiers, leaving them lying there like carrion, as they rose again and flew off, and suddenly he heard a loud and very dirty curse from behind him, in a breaking voice.

The boy was standing there, glaring at the departing dark figures with all the ire he could muster, a look of pure hatred on his face, and then Gimli heard it- the people of Gondor raised their voices, and the air filled with curses of the worst kind anyone could imagine, the peasant's sayings and noblemen's talk and soldier's slang and the words that mothers told their children never to say- the Gondorians spat them out at the dots in the sky and underneath the curses he heard the determination, the fire, the spirit, and his heart lightened. Gondor wasn't ready to die yet.

He turned to his friends with a dry look, but couldn't summon anything remotely humourous to say about this... situation. He really should work on his euphemisms, he reflected. He was getting sloppy. Most unacceptable.

"My lords!" The soldier burst back up into the open air, eyes wide open with horror _again. _Gimli realised with a start that he had no idea how long they'd been standing here, brooding- too long, apparently.

"Lord... Lord Denethor! He's gone mad! Babbling about fire and rope and it's-" But the three were gone, Gimli with a decidedly unhappy grumble under his breath. Honestly, couldn't Gondor's soldiers handle madman by themselves? Just lock him up in the nearest room, in Gimli's opinion. Although he supposed it would complicate things slightly, if the one they had to lock up was their lord...

The moment he saw Denethor, his heart sank. The barest sparks of clarity, the last dregs of sanity that Denethor had had left, were gone, burned to ashes by trauma. Aragorn could not call him back this time, and if he tried he was a-

"My lord!"

-Fool.

That idiot of a Man was actually approaching the raving Steward, whose hands were madly twisting each other as if eager to get started on a human neck, and Gimli proved right when, as Aragorn neared, Denethor let out a crazed, ringing cry and, producing a knife from seemingly nowhere, stabbed forward. Gimli choked and stumbled forward, seeing Legolas blur past him, and Aragorn- if by some honed instinct or by sheer luck, Gimli didn't particularly care- ducked so that at least the knife merely hit his shoulder- incidentally, the exact same place where Boromir's knife had struck, two weeks ago, and Gimli shuddered at the uncanny parallel as Denethor forged forward, face contorted with anger.

Aragorn was trying to say something, but seemed to reconsider, and he stumbled to his feet again, one hand clamped over the wound. "Boromir-?" Was all that finally made its way past his gasping lips, and it was enough. Denethor froze, eyes fixed on an unseen spot in the air, ignoring everything.

Then in a motion so quick that not even Legolas could stop him- he turned the knife, and it sank into his breast.

* * *

"There is no reason to hesitate anymore, my friend," Legolas' voice was quiet, but stubborn in the muted atmosphere of the Houses of Healing. Gimli stood stolidly by his friend, determined to see this through, and as one they glared at the Man standing at the window, looking out to his city. And when he turned, there was a soft smile on his lips, and they could see the King.

Hope came back to Gondor that day, and the people cried in the streets for joy.

* * *

His breaths hitched again, and he bit back an Elvish curse which he was sure Aragorn hadn't meant for him to hear, one night somewhere in Hollin. Where there was grass. And trees, and running water in streams, and cool breezes...

The air was so stiflingly thick, what with mysterious fumes rising from unknown origins and the ever-present fires of the mountain he was hopefully approaching... His hand was-

Choking back another curse, he yanked his hand from its position clutching the Ring with an effort. _Let it go. You have to let it go._ There was a red circle burnt into his palm by now, for no matter how many times he pulled his hand down it would unconsciously creep up again and latch on to the hell born object, gripping it so hard he could feel the indent of it as his other hand ran across...

He stumbled again, falling to his knees on the rough stone, and desperately held onto the ground as the world tilted dangerously. _So tired. _

_...Make you strong. _The Ring was strong, and he wasn't, and who was he to resist? Because he was _weak_ and _small_ and _helpless_ and he hated it and he was so very tired. The very marrow of his bones ached relentlessly with every step, and all he wanted suddenly was to lay himself down and sleep forever, but-

_I will make you strong and we will rule the world_

"Shut up," he ground out bitterly, and tried not to think about the times when he'd gently rebuked little Pip for saying that to Merry when the older Hobbit started teasing him, "keep your opinions to yourself, for I _will not listen."_

_Oh, but you are_

"I am _not."_

_Come, rest, I will-_

_"No." _He managed, as he vaguely realised that he was probably going slightly mad- he was holding a conversation with an inanimate object, after all. Given, said inanimate object was the most powerful weapon in this world, but still it was an object. And he was talking to it.

And he... hadn't moved. Biting back a groan, he lifted a leg, planting it into the red earth and lurching up unsteadily. He wavered for a while, holding on the rock forming the corridor-like path, and, stubbornly pushing back the thought of how many days he'd gone without sleep, pressed on.

-_Make you strong..._

"Piece of filth!" He gasped in sudden, utter fright as he felt the impact of a bigger body on his, and looked up quickly. _Oh._ A large orc stood there, glaring at him hatefully, for he evidently hadn't been looking where he was going. _Sweet Ilúvatar, have mercy._

_"_What're you doing with that helmet on?" The orc stared at him suspiciously. Ilúvatar obviously wasn't in a good mood, Frodo thought gloomily as he searched desperately for an answer. "And which company are you from?"

"I- I-" But the orc reached forward and suddenly knocked the metal helmet off, and Frodo froze, dark curls blowing in the wind, as the orc gaped silently, shocked to speechlessness. Then a spark of cold hatred and triumph appeared in the small, spiteful eyes, and Frodo took a step back. An evil grin was spreading on the creature's face, and he was head and shoulders over Frodo. No chance-

_But for if you use-_

No. Not again. He would _not _use the Ring to kill again, never again, he'd sworn...

_If you do not, you will die. _

_-Strong._

A trembling breath, as the orc approached, a smirk on its deformed face. This is war. And he was already shaking from the effort of standing upright, and this was a creature of evil, and he must kill him must kill him must save the whole world must do this-

His hand closed around the Ring.

_Strong._

The orc leapt, and his finger slid so easily into that golden circle, and he was burning up with power and heady euphoria and desire to _kill kill kill blood on your hands _and it took just a second to whip out a knife and slit the orc's throat, and he was left there panting, terrified, horrified, and buoyed with an unutterable, heady joy at the same time, because it was _magic._

_-I see you._

_The Dark Lord stood there, and he was great. And he was terrible and he looked at Frodo-_

Bad magic. Bad magic. It's evil, _oh, Frodo, it's evil, take it off take it off take it** off now.**_ His heart ripped as he tore the Ring off his finger and collapsed against unyielding rock, staring in wordless horror at the blood pooling beneath the dead creature. _Killed. Blood. No. You murderer-_

It had been so sickeningly easy. Just put on the Ring and draw a red line on the helpless thing's throat, and he was dead. So easy. _Oh Eru, forgive me._ He swallowed a sob, turning his face against the stone and staining it with salt-touched tears, for he could kill so well now, and how could that be? He wasn't a warrior never had been a fighter but now he _could_...

_Heartless. And again and again I can make you strong-_

"Not," he spat with a venom that surprised himself, "if strength means killing. _You cannot have me. And I will kill no more." _

He wouldn't. He absolutely _refused _to do it anymore, and one day he swore he would wash his hands clean of this unending blood and watch the Ring _melt to nothing in the hell-fires and he would laugh-_

A cracked, desperate cry that echoed- but he didn't _care_ anymore if anyone heard, because he was _on fire,_ and even if he burnt out soon and couldn't go on, he would because he must because the world needed to be saved and he _would not fall._

_-Strong._


	17. Chapter 17

_March 11th, T.A. 3019_

The great hall was hushed. Aragorn reflected wryly that it didn't seem much of a council now, though he had called them forth for exactly such a purpose, but it seemed everything was conspiring against him, even the tongues of his supposed subjects.

The word still felt foreign on his tongue. The scene was oddly reminscent of one decades ago, when he had stood here in another council of another time, but then he had been a captain, not a king, and Ecthelion, not he, headed the meeting. In fact, if he remembered correctly, it was always Ecthelion's duty to begin the meeting.

He sighed.

He waited a few more moments, but evidently no one was going to speak up. When this infernal war was over, he should really have a good talk with the citizens of Gondor about all the possible meanings and executions of the phrase 'taking the initiative', since they clearly knew nothing about it.

He couldn't think of anything to say.

"My friends," softly, with a strange note to his voice that even he couldn't place but which sounded distinctly Elvish, judging by the amused look Legolas sent his way "I gather you here today to discuss a... rather pressing matter."

Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth choked.

His lips twitched despite himself. Perhaps sarcasm wasn't quite the right note to begin a council with, he mused doubtfully. But to get back to business. With another sigh, trying to ignore Legolas' laughing eyes watching the Prince for further explosions, he went on. "An extremely pressing matter, you could say. An army beyond any of us marches upon Gondor, and it will assail us from all fronts." He drew a deep breath.

The nights were haunting his steps, even now. Foresight, a gift and a curse, visions to send him sleepless to stand at the balcony and stare to the East... Visions that might- _might-_ be enough to save Gondor.

Admittedly, that was highly unlikely.

"The forces which march under Sauron's command number more than two hundred and fifty thousand."

If the hall was hushed before, now it was silent, deeply, profoundly silent as one Man, one Elf and one Dwarf attempted to register this.

Then the silence was broken by a disbelieving sputter, and with a resigned sigh Aragorn turned to Gimli.

"Aragorn, you are jesting. You must be." There was a stronger undertone to the normal cynicism of Gimli's wont, and Aragorn closed his eyes.

"I am not, master Dwarf," he replied quietly. "I am not."

He took the chance to observe his companions while they attempted to wrap their minds around the concept- not to mention how their King had known this. Imrahil was standing very still, his keen grey eyes staring out the eastern window with a look of such despair and anger and, impossibly, hope, that Aragorn knew his heart was still true, his soul still steady. _And if Gondor has yet one captain as brave as this one, then we have hope. We do._

Gimli's mouth was slightly open as he stared incredulously at Aragorn. His hand had strayed automatically to his beloved axe, and was now in a fist around its handle as if desperate to draw it and begin some wild bloodbath to expend _some _energy, and Aragorn smiled, just a little. What was he thinking? This was Gimli. He was going to make sarcastic comments about the end of the world and then go out and blaze the evil to death with his iron strength, that he did not doubt.

The Elf at Gimli's side was looking at him, and yet he had the unsettling feeling that the Elf was looking into him, through him, beyond him, at something only he could see. Legolas, who had given so much to protect his beloved once-Greenwood, who would now die fighting for a country not his own, with a people who hardly remembered the ties that once bound the two races. One day soon, the blood of Men and Elves- and maybe Dwarves- would mingle once more on a battlefield, before it all ended, once and for all, for better or for worse. Frodo was beyond them now, beyond everything, and yet maybe if they hoped-

He'd hoped his whole life, years of shadows with the hint of a light just beyond his fingertips that kept him going- but it was nearly over.

And they deserved to know.

"The great battle of this war is nigh upon us, and it will break Gondor as a beast crushes a child. All we have now depends not on us, but..." He hesitated only a moment. Imrahil might as well know. The world might as well know, now. And if there was any hope at all it rested upon the small shoulders of such a small one...

"But upon the smallest of us all, who bears the whole world," he finished, meeting Imrahil's eyes squarely. "Were you aware of the true reason that Denethor sent his son to Imladris, to seek the answer to the riddle, and to retrieve a weapon beyond all thought?"

The dark-haired lord inclined his head. "I was. Faramir spoke to me of it, once, but Denethor found us, and..." He shook his head.

"That weapon is all of the Dark Lord's power, and if it is destroyed, he will be stripped of all possibility of dominion, will fall so low as to never rise again."

"And how is it to be destroyed?"

"It must be borne to the heart of Mordor, and cast into the fires in which it was made," he replied, watching Imrahil's face. "By the hands of one of the _holbytlan, _as they are known here."

"A halfling!"

"Yea, you speak truly. Half our stature they may seem, but great are their hearts, and one of them has gone alone into the heart of evil on Middle-earth, there to decide the fate of us all."

"To decide?" Gimli burst out suddenly. "There it will be decided, surely! You do not mean to say that Frodo's choice will-?"

"Ringbearer, Gimli. Did you not think upon the true meaning of that name?" Legolas' voice interjected. "Frodo bears the Ring, and Frodo decides what to do with it. If he chooses to claim it, all will fall to darkness- but it will have been his choice, and for no one to take away."

Imrahil was looking between the three of them with an inscrutable expression, but finally he spoke. "So you mean that there is nothing we can do about our fate but sit here and enjoy the scenery- with all respect, my lord."

Both Gimli and Legolas cast him looks decidedly appreciative about his newfound ability to throw sarcasm back in the face of his lord, and Aragorn did not hold back a soft laugh. "No, Lord Imrahil, that was not my intention. What use is it, should Frodo destroy the Ring, and come back to a world too broken to mend? Will not his sacrifice then be in vain? No, my friends, no. We will not lay ourselves down to die. And when the enemy comes to Gondor, we will do what we must."

He eyed the three others in the hall with him. They did not look happy. This was probably a good thing, because anyone who looked remotely joyful in these circumstances had probably lost their grip on reality. They did not look sorrowful, either. This was good, too, for there was- there w_as_ hope yet, even if it threatened to die at any given time.

But they did look stubborn. They looked positively muleheaded, in fact.

And this was the best thing he had seen in quite some time.

* * *

Frodo drew in a great gasping breath, and practically felt his lungs collapse that little bit more. Gravel bit his cheek as he laid it down again, trembling against the ground. _Tired. _And the air here was thick and heavy and every breath brought more evil into his body till one day, he was sure, he was going to implode from the sheer amount of blackness he'd inhaled.

He ran through the steps in his head again. Get there. Throw Ring. Get out of there. Simple, really. All right.

He'd given up walking long ago, he couldn't quite remember when. Maybe yesterday night, although in his opinion night didn't really count as night when you couldn't sleep and the world was so lit by fire that it was brighter than day and...

Get there.

His hand was pushed forward again, and he grabbed onto the nearest rock and clung on, pulling himself forward. This wasn't exactly the fastest mode of transport around, but it was the fastest he could manage, as he'd discovered when he tried to run. He snorted softly at the thought. His version of running wasn't quite running, more stumbling and falling practically every step. No, crawling was better. _So close._

_So far._

But he had reached it _he had reached it _despite everything, despite the fact that he was small and helpless and weak, _he had reached the mountain of doom. _Or at least its foot. And he was so close now so close to succeeding and he couldn't stop he must go on no matter what-

Get there. Just get there-

Because far away it was spring in the Shire and the flowers were beginning to bloom, and the little Hobbit lasses would run out to the fields and pick them, bunches of glory in their small fair hands as they sang the ditties of childhood. And the little boys would run through the meadows to the streams and dive in, laughing and splashing in the sparkling water, as overhead the sun was bright and golden...

He had to believe it was like that, or what was left to go on for? _Had to believe _that the Shire was safe, that Galadriel's mirror had lied, that it was still beautiful, so beautiful, that it was _home_ and it was waiting for him to come back-

You can go back after you get there, he told himself again, and again, and again.

_I will carry you when you cannot go on_

But he would rather crawl, inch by painstaking bloody inch, than- than take that thing and put it on and grow strong and be great- and rise- like the kings of old- he could be

_Great._

No. No, oh, no. Another handhold up. Now his foot. Up. And up. And up. He was going to get there, he wasn't going to fall, he was going to destroy the thing hanging round his neck... On and on and on and on and on. He supposed the mountain was magnificent in its own way, towering over him like some behemoth, but he couldn't honestly find anything remotely positive about this place.

Get there.

It was spitting fire into the sky and into his lungs, with every passing second, and the Eye searched, and the Eye _**always found what it looked for**_-

_And when you are too weary lay down your head_

He tasted salt once more on his tongue, the blood of too much bitten lips. It was real, tangible, and he clung to it like the last light in the darkness, before he was left all alone laid bare before the great Eye- no-

_And sleep, and I will take_

He struggled. The world tilted every few metres, oddly enough, because he was pretty certain that he wasn't... upside down... or standing... upright?

_Everything_

_Oh._

Because the Eye was there, it was there and he was caught in it, captivated by the glow of the great evil that sang a song he knew, and he wanted to join in and raise his voice and his hand and use it and end everything, _everything..._

* * *

...But far away in another tower one who held Frodo most dear would not let him go.

* * *

He forced heavy eyelids open, and found himself staring into white folds of cloth. Black marble was cold against his cheek, and he shuddered a little as he tried to raise his head.

Who was he?

He wasn't quite sure, to be honest. Something to do with a staff. And an eagle. And-

"Ah." The soft exclamation coming from somewhere in front of him was unremarkable, but it made his heart lurch precariously. He knew that voice. Then panic set in and he clenched his hand desperately, relaxing when he felt the reassuring touch of a ring around his finger, pressing itself against his cold hand. _It _was still there, then. Again, he was sure what it was, just that it was important. Rings. Very important, they were.

_Why?_

And he remembered.

"You are awake," Curumo observed blandly.

"I am," he returned wearily. He had the feeling they'd said this before. He would have liked to imagine that he was using their names of long long ago in order to orchestrate some deep and complex plan, but the plain truth was that he couldn't think of anything else- _White and Grey.._. He sighed.

"So I see we are to have this conversation again," acidly. Ah, so he was right about the 'again' part.

"We are." He murmured agreeably, hiding the barest hint of a smile as Curumo's eyes darkened. There was nothing so amusing as infuriating your enemy- at least, when you were in said enemy's custody.

"Do not waste your words, Gandalf the Grey," he hissed, and something inside Olórin broke at the name. Oh yes, he remembered. _Gandalf_ was the name of the wizard, bent and grey and wizened. It was the name of the labourer, who had walked all the paths of Middle-earth for so very long. The name of a weary wanderer. The name that was a burden. But Olórin... Olórin was young, and would always be. He lived in the vague promise of Valinor, in a time long ago and far away. _But you cannot be Olórin for a long time now. Not until the world is free again._

Gandalf.

Saruman.

"I do not, Saruman, of the many colours, the White. What say you? You and I are brethren, and our blood cannot force secrets from our lips. You know this... Curumo."

For as _Gandalf_ was a millstone round his neck, so _Curumo _was a reminder of all that Saruman had betrayed.

"Silence!" He snapped, and Gandalf saw the hint of precious memory in his eyes. Of a world so perfect, one they once both called _home_... "You and I are brethren far sundered, and we both know whose the power is."

"So we do," Gandalf returned softly. "And yet, who will triumph in the end against the Dark Lord? No one, Curumo, do not deceive yourself. No one. Do you desire It? You will never get It now. It is gone, beyond our reach no matter how we may crave for It. There are only two fates for It now."

"_Silence!"_

"To be reunited with its master," he continued relentlessly, "or to be destroyed... and either way, all our hopes are gone. What mercy will Sauron see fit to have upon you? You would have taken the Ring, had you the chance. You ordered the Uruks to bring the halfling to Isengard... Fool! You will die. Either way."

Saruman's eyes blazed with unearthly power, and Gandalf found himself on the other side of the room. But he saw the realisation, the truth in the other wizard's face. Fool, indeed.

But was he not a bigger fool? Everything, the fate of the whole world, he'd balanced it all on the fragile hope of a Hobbit's strength against the legions of Mordor, had gambled all their lives on a little Halfling with a heart to match the heroes... _Fool's hope._

_Hope._

_Estel._

And he saw Frodo's face, he did. The first time the little one had found out what Aragorn's childhood name was, and the pure belief that had flooded that young face was so brilliant he'd looked away, unable to bear the thought of those impossibly high hopes crashing to the ground...

But they need not.

There were things yet that he could do, stranded in Isengard...

"Come, you do not truly believe that Sauron is greater? Not yet, my old friend, not yet. When he regains It, yes. But not yet. For now... for now, you and I, we have a chance of taking his seat, and from there..."

He leaned forward, meeting Saruman's fathomless dark gaze with all the false passion he could muster. "We could take It."

He saw it, the seed of doubt that flowered in Saruman's heart, the one he'd planted, the one he'd watered... Now, it would help Frodo, in some little, desperate way, along that darkest of all roads he should never have had to traverse. Yes.

"And why not? Why not?" His voice grew, echoing in their ears, their magnificence luring Saruman along. "We could, Saruman. Was that not your plan, the one you tried to convince me of? I was foolish then. I have learnt.

"Two new Lords, Saruman, twin thrones from which to rule the world. Alone, we are not strong enough. Together..." It was working. It was.

"We can." The whisper was quiet, but it carried, and he looked up to see the White Wizard standing at the very edge of the tower, looking out. _Yes._

And Saruman brought it forth, the sphere pulsing with darkness. _Palantír_. He did not shudder. He rose.

Yes...

They stood side by side before it, and they looked into it and the power, the sheer power they had together nearly sent him to his knees. Eru, they were so strong. They could-

No. No. _Hope_. So they called, a challenge so confident the Dark One could not help but see it, and fear, and turn his thoughts away from a small one somewhere in his lands...

_The Eye saw._

* * *

_He was caught. He was caught and drawn in like prey to a spider to the blood-red Eye, searching his soul and he-_

_Fell._

_Fell, through time and space and stars and dreams and fire and-_

Ground?

Rocks.

Yes, ground.

Frodo blinked and stared up into the ash-grey sky disbelievingly, before slowly turning his gaze to the monstrously tall tower and, more importantly, the Eye at its top. He choked back a cry of heady relief, for it stared off vaguely in another direction, and _oh_ _Ilúvatar _he was saved.

His eyes turned to the tip of the mountain.

Saved for a _reason_.

And he would not let it go to waste.

* * *

Legolas leaned his weight on his arms, resting against the ledge that overlook the Pelennor Fields, and shut his eyes resolutely.

It didn't work.

He should have known better than to try to block out the images that sprung all too willingly to his mind when he saw the endless green that surrounded Minas Tirith. A potential battlefield, to his warrior's eyes. Green could turn to red far too easily, and in a few days it _would_.

Yes, the battle would be brought to them, to Gondor's doorstep and there they would fight, to the bitter end, for bitter it would be. He looked to the East again, at the burgeoning shadow, and sighed. With such an irrevocable reminder of evil beside them every day, how could anyone expect the men of Gondor to keep hope? His own flickered and shuddered at the mere sight of the ominous darkness growing there, and it was so close.

So close.

He leaned forward, and frowned. A company of riders had appeared at the horizon, and they were riding hard. Men, with bright swords and dark hair. They did not look like Southrons, or to be in the service of the Dark One, but one never knew-

"My... my lord!"

A page stumbled through the curtain separating his balcony from the room, and he looked upon the young, dishevelled boy with some alarm. After all, the last time someone had come crashing into the room with such urgency, a good thirty Gondorian soldiers had died at the hands of evil beyond anything they should have had to face, so...

"Strangers... strangers approach," he panted, "and Lord Gimli and the... the King call for your presence." Legolas bit back a smile at the look of pure, joyful wonder that came to the boy's face at the mention of his new lord, as if hope had come suddenly on a grey day in the form of a legend they had thought long forgotten. Technically, Aragorn hadn't been crowned yet, but to his people... he was their King, and would ever be.

"I come," he told the soldier calmly. "Will you lead me to them?"

"Gladly, my lord!" He smiled this time, at the eagerness and willingness to serve he read in the youth's face and voice.

When they arrived at the Gate- Legolas with considerably more grace than the page- They could clearly hear the thunder of horses' hooves, and the lookouts called that the riders would reach recognisable distance soon. Legolas snorted softly at this, but kept his peace, even if he could have described every feature of each Man's face to them with great accuracy at that very moment. He waited.

Then they came- dark-haired, grey-eyed, astride great horses. Legolas let out a quiet exclamation at the sight of them, for the animals were well-bred and well-muscled, moving with grace and swiftness. He ran his eyes over the creatures with the pleasure of a good horseman, but tensed at Aragorn's cry.

He relaxed the next moment, for his brain registered that it was a glad sound, not one of alarm- though it was slower than his arm, for he suddenly realised that his hand was on his bow and an arrow was strung. But Aragorn strode forward and, suddenly, clasped one rider in a fierce embrace, and Legolas let out a great breath. Of course.

How had he not seen it earlier? Fool! Of course. Dark-haired and grey-eyed- the Dúnedain of the North had come to their Chieftain's aid, except that he was so much more, now.

It seemed that the Ranger knew it, too. Slowly, the keen eyes took in the courtyard, which had let out a collective sigh of relief at the response of the Man before him, and a smile spread on his lips. The rest of the company raised their heads, too, as if they had dreamed their whole lives of this moment, and it was finally coming to be before their eyes...

"You are not the only one with foresight, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. The Dúnedain pledge our swords to your service, as we have, as we will. As Chieftain..." His eyes blazed with joy. "As King," he whispered, voice dropping suddenly, and he knelt.

* * *

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	18. Chapter 18

_March 12th, T.A. 3019_

"So it begins."

The words circled the hall, softened by the blur of noon light that blazed in from a high window, bathing the white room in brightness. Their speaker was reclining on the third step of the stairs leading to the empty throne, long legs stretched out before him, completely ignoring the disapproving gaze of Prince Imrahil. Gimli dutifully held back a chortle at the sight, but he did not quite succeed, and a half-muffled snort escaped him, earning him a dark look from the King of Gondor.

_King._

He remembered the rapturous joy on the faces of the people as Imrahil crowned their king- the blossoming of a seed of sweet hope amidst a sea of relentless evil, evil pressing closer with every passing moment...

There was a reason the Lord of Dol Amroth had insisted on the coronation as soon as possible, and it was not impatience. No. No, it was fear that if he waited, if they all waited for the end of this War, it might never happen, and he could not let that happen, could not let the people of Gondor die without seeing their King with the winged crown on his head, sceptre in hand, looking to the West- yes, that picture in their heads would give them hope when nothing else could.

"Perhaps 'So it ends' would be more appropriate," a weary voice interjected. It came from the very window from whence the sun was coming in, from the Elf currently lazing on the sill some fifteen feet in the air. How he had gotten there Gimli didn't even want to imagine. He shook his head. Men and Elves! Better a good Dwarf who kept his feet on the ground- literally.

He smirked a little as Imrahil threw a disbelieving look at the Elf, then turned away with a groan, apparently washing his hands of his new aquaintances and their strange sitting habits. In Legolas's words, after all, "If we're going to die soon, we might as well sit the way we like in these last few hours."

"Not many of us remember the beginning, Legolas," Aragorn returned with a wry look.

"Neither do I," Legolas replied, the melancholy note still there. "It began far back through the mists of time, child of the Edain. When the first Children rose in the waters and saw Ilúvatar's face in every star, and maybe before that." And he turned his face to the light.

"Come," Aragorn murmured, "child of the Eldar, perhaps we are both right. Here we stand, at the beginning of the end, and we will not falter."

"I would thank you to remember that the children of Ilúvatar are not the only ones in this room," Gimli interrupted with a barking laugh. "But Mahal's creations are not so good with words. We are iron-people, stone-children, and that is enough for us. Enough for our world."

"Not in this world," Legolas said, and he almost sang, in a lilting tone that awoke uncanny longing in each breast. "Not in this world... Here, there is only blood, and fire, and we will march upon the corpses of our friends, on and on, 'til we die."

"Come, Elf! What is it that has you so sorrowful and poetic? Come down. We are all going to die, but that doesn't mean we have to grieve."

Aragorn coughed. "Excuse me? We are all doomed and you want us to rejoice?"

"No, no, of course not!" Gimli exclaimed impatiently. "For all your skill with verse, you are not very good at understanding others. Mahal's children do not spend their time brooding at the horizon when a battle looms. They share their laughter and their song, so that if we die our last memory we will hold is that of good. Of love. But I supposed Elves must always be sad and sorrowful and stare into the distance in a profound way."

A soft laugh came from Legolas. "That is a most unique point of view, Master Dwarf."

"Among mortals, you must learn to look at things differently." Aragorn suggested with an amused look, "suspend that Elven wisdom for a while."

This time, Gimli didn't hold back the snort. The silhouette at the window froze, and very, very slowly, turned to stare at Gimli, icy eyes daring him to speak.

"You and I must have a different definition of the word 'wisdom', Aragorn," Gimli said, blithely ignoring the glare of the Elf. "For I certainly would not use that word in relation to Elves, unless there be a 'not' in between."

The Elf sat upright, back straight with tension. "Excuse me, Master Gimli?"

Imrahil, in the meantime, had crept to his lord's side and discreetly enquired whether either of those beings actually realised that they were all going to be killed very soon by an army too huge to see with the human eye, and had been reassured to the affirmative, a glint of equal humour and sorrow in Aragorn's eyes.

"I must have misheard," Legolas was continuing, "For-"

_So it begins..._

_Begins..._

_Begins..._

_Ends._

The unmistakable sound of an orc horn, of dark chanting in the Black Tongue... _It is here. It is now. _

_Now._

"And Elves are not wise, Legolas," Gimli cried suddenly, for something rose in him and he knew it was time. "They are not great. They are not glorious. They are not beautiful. They are not grand. But one of them I count the friend of a Dwarf, and that makes up for everything else."

Legolas was standing now, one still figure against the sun. For the longest moment, he was silent. Then, suddenly, Aragorn rose from the steps and drew his sword, and the two spoke in unison. One word, but it said all.

"_Elvellon."_

Imrahil took a step back, and with a ring of steel, his own sword left its sheath. For if Man and Elf and Dwarf could stand so in fellowship, then Gods, he knew Gondor could take Mordor.

They _could._

* * *

_I tie you up with the heartstrings left over from the souls that I ate, and slip between your ribs and nuzzle your flesh, oh so sweet, in the dark dark night, we're afire and come follow me to the edge I will hold you_

But he was nearly there and he'd come so _far_ and he couldn't stop now, though he was screaming inside with all that he had, lest his hand unclench its stubborn fist and take that thing to itself and everything would be _gone_

_Forever_

He blinked and realised, rather dazedly, that he was still lying there... lying there on the scorching slope that led to his doom... his doom that he'd meet with nothing but a cracked-lipped smile and a splintered hope... and it had to be enough had to be enough _he _had to be enough to

_Conquer, I will carry you through, to the edge, take that step and we will fly_

It was dancing... Gold flashes at the edge of his eyes. Something stretched again in him, something that had been pulling itself apart since the first step he took out of the green green Shire, and it was so close now so close to breaking and shattering him irreparably, but he wanted to live wanted to survive wanted to go back and see that he'd done it and he would do it, oh Eru he had to do it...

_Fly so high _

A dreamlike smile touched his dry mouth, and he tasted water, sweet, good water, just a hint of a taste, and if he took it... Wouldn't die wouldn't cry no more pain just fire and fierce joy into eternity...

_So high we'll never come down again_

Wait... never?

No, no, he wanted to go back, wanted to stay here. Go on. He must go on. Forth upon this fire-scorched hell-carved road that he'd chosen to walk... all by himself... for that is the path of a Ring-bearer, the lonely path-

Gold... Gold glinting, allure that no one can resist, and who was he to defy...?

He sobbed, a violent cry that ripped his throat brutally, blood on his tongue, or was it tears? They were both salty... He was breaking, held together by the thinnest thread of will that he still clung to so desperately, and Sam, oh Sam, he must do this because his friend was whole and good and dreaming of Rosie and he must he _must-_

_Fly with me_

-It broke. _He _broke. All alone in shattered pieces on the ground.

He couldn't quite give it a name, even now, even here, as he hurled himself to his feet, rocking wildly, stumbling forward, and one hand held the ring held it so tight... It was sanity? It was hope? It was love? Gone, gone, it was gone and never would come again so he might as well finish this thing before it finished him and he felt it burning through his veins _he was running on wheels of fire that blazed a new path, one never traversed before, into the heart of doom and he was there._

_He'd done it._

He was here at the end of all his roads and he, he- he clutched a hand to his chest desperately, because it's beautiful it's so beautiful but it's dark and dangerous and evil and he _must end it now_

_Sing with me_

So this was how it would finish him! He let loose a raw, bitter cry, but the melody was unutterably compelling, the gold dancing to the song its master sang, and he could follow that... would follow that to the edges of infinity if so called...

He was staring into fire so deep and so great he knew he only had to take one more step, just one more, and he would fall into forever that was made of red and gold and burn with the precious and why didn't he do it just one more step after so many so many he'd come so far to do this he must do it but then it was so sweet the feel of metal against his finger and suppose he just- felt it-

One more time...

It slipped off the chain with sublime perfection, and drew his shaking finger to it with all the reckless passion it had always awoken in him because now was the time and he must... he must...

End it...

Destroy it...

A King stood here, long ago, he pleaded helplessly, and now it's you, little clumsy helpless foolish Hobbit, do it do it _do it. Now. For everything. _

_Follow me_

A call no one could resist...

But he'd come here bearing- all the hopes of all of Middle-earth- and Sam- and Gandalf, and Merry and Pip- Love and grief and everything in between, but he had to remember something, had to hold on- to- something-

And if he gave in he could rest forever he was so tired in the clouds he would... fly...

Ashes and salt and tears that tasted bitter and a ring that circled everything and brought it home and he couldn't do this anymore _give up give up give up I- take it- for my own-_

_Precious_

* * *

_The Eye flared. For it felt it. The Ring, the Ring, and it turned relentlessly to the burning mountain..._

* * *

Aragorn stabbed another orc and turned away from the blood staining the cobblestones. So fast. So fast they had breached the gate and poured into the city, and he knew with a bitter twist of his soul that Gondor was falling, falling onto the red earth and the shattered blades of its children as they fought their last battle, and why, Eru, why?

Because you have to because this is war because this is _life and death._ Because this is fate and hope. Because this is the world teetering on the finger of one little Hobbit somewhere to the East.

And-

And-

_Frodo has to do it._

_He has to do it now. _

_He must. He cannot fail. _

There was only one way that Sauron might ever overlook the fact that his Ring, his lost beauty, was near to him again, only one way. If he dangled the other earth-shaking danger to the Dark Lord before his face, if he distracted him with all that he had, then _maybe maybe Frodo had a chance._

_One chance._

He turned with impulsive, wild resolve and ran, fear giving him wings as he made himself a path of corpses and the Flame of the West shone glistening with blood, up, up to the Citadel, to the dark, shaded rooms where the last Steward of Gondor had lost his mind to a pulsating sphere, and with trembling hands he drew it out from the hidden place where he had placed it...

_When the King comes back..._

_It is mine. By right. _

_Just a chance._

"_What are you doing?"_

He looked up and almost cried out, but bit his lips and savoured the morbid taste of salt. Elf and Dwarf stood in the doorway, pain and fear and weariness and desperation and all that they had borne in their lives, and- _just a chance. _He met their eyes, calmly, for he knew now that if the price for the world was Gondor's King and one hobbit, they would pay it with pride.

He saw it, the moment the understanding dawned in their eyes, bewilderment turning to horror, horror to anger, anger, finally, to acceptance.

_I will keep it..._

"No," Gimli managed, but his eyes said _yes._

_...Who knows?_

He turned to the stone.

* * *

The world was a cadence of perfection. He was lost. Maybe Frodo was his name once but now he was ring-master, ring-lover, ring-enchanted child, singing to the fey romance of hobbits and gold. Nothing more than the most beautiful thing in the world, and it called him, whispered to him, wrapped itself around him and oh, he felt whole again, whole and true and real, and good, and strong, strong like the mountains and the rain and the limitless red sky on this day of reckoning...

And the Eye. It was coming. Coming, but he couldn't feel scared. Just sit here and wait. Maybe doom was coming but he would sit here and rapture and when it came... Nothing more. Nothing more.

* * *

-But it stopped.

Its gaze, arrested one short moment before finding him, _and it turned away._

_Away from him, and he was free. _

_Frodo. Yes. That is my name._

* * *

_"I bid you come forth, Sauron, Dark Lord."_

And Sauron heard, and, impossibly, in the hidden places of his heart, he felt fear.

* * *

They met in a place somehow Gondor and somehow Mordor, two nations of white and black, good and bad, courage and cowardice. Power. Yes, that was what made the two look so unnervingly alike, power, so much power. Two Lords of two countries.

He met the burning depths of the Eye, and he was not afraid, not anymore. He was not Strider any longer, or Thorongil or Aragorn or even Elessar. He was _Estel, _the little boy with kaleidoscope eyes and dreams of ancient heroes and noble deeds, who'd one day long ago vowed to slay the dragon.

And one day, not quite so long ago, a little Hobbit had come bumbling onto the history of Middle-earth and left his mark there forever. Killed the dragon and found something else.

Something so much harder to fight than a dragon.

But now he was here, it was here, the heart of all the suffering he'd seen and endured, these long, long years, and now he stood at the edge of a cliff and all that was good lay behind him and he must protect it, he must.

Sauron approached, and he stood there.

_I am here._

The smouldering glint of a black eye caught the light for a moment, before the helmet obscured the face again, but that one glimpse was enough for him. Steeling his legs, which seemed to have gained the urgent need to turn him around and run- fast- but no. He would not flee, would not hide, for the time for that was past. Now was the time to seize everything and go out to meet the Shadow with all that he had and an ill-founded courage and a fleeting hope.

It would do.

* * *

_Frodo lay on a rock, one that stuck straight into the heavens and watched the stars pass by and his finger burn and burn and burn. But he remembered something, something not quite right about everything. And no one was watching. No one was watching._

* * *

The greatest battles, Aragorn reflected wryly, were, after all, not those sung of by minstrels, told in vague, epic stories to children. The battles that decided the end of the Third Age, once and for all, would not be the one fought in Minas Tirith, or the bloodbath at Edoras, would not be about kings riding out at the head of vast armies.

No, indeed. If people did live to write lays about the heroes of the War of the Ring, those songs would be about little people standing firm, about long, quiet enduring in the shadows. He smiled a little wistfully. So long his people had laboured to keep the Shire safe, and now one Shireling would save them all.

As he raised his sword, in this place not quite real and not quite in dreams, the Dark Lord saw a face hard-set with grey eyes like the sea, the unconquerable sea, and remembered a man who picked up a broken shard and destroyed him. He saw a son of the fathers, a proud scion of a house of indomitable kings, and as he drew his weapon, his black weapon, he vowed that this time the Faithful would die.

Arrogance, Aragorn thought, and the hint of a smile worked its way onto his lips. Yes. Sauron must believe in his arrogance, his unfounded pride... his possession of that which Sauron always looked for.

"Do you fear now? Do you see this sword? See and do not forget, dark one! For this is Narsil reforged, the legacy of the Kings you thought long dead. Light has awoken. And it will take its revenge."

_A hasty stroke. But it will do its work._

His enemy took a step forward. And his sword rose.

* * *

Gimli stumbled back as Aragorn placed his hand on that- that evil thing, and drew a deep breath.

And he stood still.

It was a surprisingly hard task, seeing as his heart was screaming at him to go, go and rip that foolish Man's hands off that accursed thing, but he did not move. For the whole world.

"Gimli?"

The Elf sounded impossibly weary, as if after a long, long life of fighting for Sauron's defeat he did not want to see it any longer. But that Gimli could not abide, for if he could not save one friend then he would most assuredly make sure that the other was there to appreciate what had just been given to him so freely.

And in a blinding moment of insight, Gimli could see so clearly what Aragorn wanted to give the world, what Frodo could win for all those who still looked to the light for hope. A white city standing bright in the sun as a glory reawakened, and far across the land a renewed kingdom of Dwarf-lords who would make the stone beautiful again, and a peaceful going for the Elves who had laboured so long. The laughter of children and the cries of newborns, to replace the clang of steel and the screams of the dying, and Mahal's beard, he hoped for the first time in so long. He would not suffer the Elf not to see it, too.

"Legolas..."

The Elf's gaze did not move from where it had pinned itself firmly on Aragorn, as if his eyes alone could protect the Man from all he was facing.

As if anything, _anything, _could.

So Gimli stood there as a statue in the dark room high above the bloodshed devastating the White City, stood vigil over one friend battling evil and one battling despair and held with all the stubborn Dwarven courage he had onto _hope._

* * *

_He was burning, burning so cold like a lone star in the icy ocean of the impossible night, and where had all the rest gone? It was nothing- he was nothing-_

_But there was a song- far to the west- a lullaby in the voice of the mother of all children and it was so beautiful so beautiful he'd missed his parents so much and it was gentle and sweet and soothing and if he laid his head down- just once just once-_

_Something..._

_No..._

_Something... about that song, a chord off in the perfect harmony, but it wasn't his mother it wasn't. The mother of the world but not of him. No, no, not of the world either. Surely a mother cared more for the world? He had things to do, very important, they were, he must... wake up..._

_Wake up, yes... _

He woke with a cheek bleeding his life out into the rock of the path that lead to the heart of doom and a terrible, terrible beauty resting, oh so tenderly against his forehead where his hand had crept as he slept- slept- how could he sleep in such a place? So much fire, he thought blankly, his mind incapable of coming up with a more intelligent remark. So much heat and blackness and fire... hot rock... legs which refused to obey him...

He remembered.

He remembered.

* * *

And so we reach the final, defining moments of the War. Thank you so much to everyone who's bothered to read this ham-fisted, clumsy attempt at a first fanfic, and I do hope you enjoy the final chapter, coming your way soon!


	19. Chapter 19

_March 12th, T.A. 3019_

His name was Frodo Baggins.

Roughly three and one third months ago, he'd set out to save the world.

He hurt in so many ways he'd stopped counting long ago.

He was scared.

That was perfectly justifiable, he thought rather desperately, most people would be scared if they ended up in Mordor, wouldn't they? He was so confused, and his head hurt, and hadn't he been sleeping just minutes ago? Oh, so sweet was that slumber, but he had things left to do... one thing left to do. But didn't he fail? He'd thought he did, and for a second he was relieved, he'd failed, that was it, now just to submit and die, but no, he couldn't do that yet not quite yet, not while gold still held the whole world enthralled... the Ring was burning a circle into his hand but he couldn't let it go...

Couldn't.

He was here- now- in this place of all places- in the stead of all the people in the world, and he had another chance, for some incomprehensible reason, he had another chance to go forth and get things done, had been saved from the doom of Sauron's knowledge one more time, and he had to...

But now he couldn't even hear the Ring's voice, or maybe he couldn't tell the difference anymore, between what he thought and what the Ring told him, and he didn't mind, could find the strength to care whether or not it had wormed its way into his decaying heart and settled there, a weight to carry around as long as he lived in this life. It was sweet, his flesh, and his soul, and his mind, and it was enjoying its descent...

He knew, quietly, definingly, blindingly, that he couldn't let it go, couldn't throw it into that inferno and turn away with a shrug, and perhaps for the first time he understood that if the Ring didn't leave this mountain then neither would he.

You knew such devotion once, he thought and impossibly, a wistful smile bloomed on the side of his bloodied lips. _I hope you're safe, Sam. I hope you live. I hope you live, and love, and grow, and be happy. Goodbye._

But if needs must then he _would _stay here till the stars fell from the skies and the great sea ran dry and this mountain crumbled to the ground from age, an empty fire with nothing but a Ring and a Hobbit who'd done his job. If he must. He had gotten here, Eru, he had gotten here and wouldn't it be such a waste of scorched feet and parched throat and broken spirit if it was all for nothing? He set his jaw.

And took a single, trembling step forward.

* * *

Aragorn lay in the shroud of his blood and looked into the eyes of his enemy, but he was not afraid.

Because in the shadowed room in the highest level of Minas Tirith, two friends waited with such unwavering love and strength and hope, two people who'd come across a world and forged a friendship out of the steel of conflict and the metal of respect. Legolas' song would endure, he thought, if he'd bought him this peace, and eventually there would enter a new, deeper harmony into his melody, the bass rhythm that echoed in the ears and heart of Gimli the Dwarf. Their friendship would be the story of the Age... The beginning of a new one... Yes.

Because far across the scorching land there stood a shaking Hobbit at the birthplace of such evil, and maybe, possibly, he'd secured some precious time for this one small being who'd left green meadows and bright sunshine and second breakfasts to bear something too awful for anything else to take, to go with such helpless bravery to a place that whispered blackness into bright souls... and no soul brighter than that of Frodo Baggins of Bag End could be found, anywhere in the annals of history or the ballads of heroes, that he knew full well.

Because in the White City men lifted their broken swords out of the bloody soil and fought with what little they had, because a young boy had cursed in all the vulgarities known to Gondorians at the Black Riders, because the Dúnedain of the North had come out of the unrelenting shadows and lead the last defiance with the valour of ancient kings strong in their eyes, because soon a Fourth Age would rise out of the ruins of the Third and it would be Men who built it.

Because the Dwarfs would hammer with their axes if they couldn't with their tools, in the Lonely Mountain where they stood so firm against the tide of darkness, and in a sweet dream they would reclaim the echoing halls of Dwarrowdelf and make the old mines beautiful again, and the light of their eyes reflecting the fires deep in the earth would rekindle, and the Dwarves would be strong.

Because in a hidden, beautiful vale somewhere to the North lay a little, bustling community of small, stout-hearted beings going about their nonchalant business, the halflings who had so changed the story of this Age. And even if all but three of them would never know what the cost of their peace was, then what did it matter? For three Hobbit heroes had wrought the beginnings of new hope in these darkest of times, Bilbo with his book, and Sam with his faith, and Frodo... Frodo, who bore the Ring.

Because the grey ships were leaving to bear the Elves to their eternal home, and somewhere, sometime, three Elves would take the Straight Path and they would be happy. A tall elven-lord who had seen so much, given so much, lost so much over the long, dreadful heartache of three Ages, who had opened his home and his heart to a mortal child with nothing but a long line of struggling kings behind him, who had stood fast through all the darkness and who was oh, so weary. A younger _ellon_ with dark hair and grey eyes and a lineage of lords, whose blood-history told the story of Middle-earth, with half his heart still lying in Moria, and... and-

_Because. _An _elleth_ with stardust in her hair and an ocean in her eyes would wait in the marbled halls of Rivendell until the last river ran dry, the Evenstar whose soul revealed all the bitter mystery of twilight as the sun set in lavender sublimity, and for all that the Men looked to him and the Elves looked to her they looked to each other for hope and love and light and joy and they'd never been found lacking, never. For the legends could not compare to the romance of the Peredhil, whose spirits rooted themselves deep in the hearts of mortal men and never let them go, and when Arwen kissed him in the midst of drunken stars and a cape of the woven night sky their world was lit by a passion so wild it burned, so gorgeous it ached, so exquisite the tears on her face were for the joy of their union and they were like the pearls at midnight that captured moonlight in their depths and held them there, spellbound. Because theirs was a love that made the night of edged light look like the backdrop for the heartsong of all the Ages, because his heart wasn't here for Sauron to stab anyway, because if he died here in this place that emanated power and evil and horror he would not falter because he knew she would not.

_Yes._

_Thus passes the hope of Middle-earth._

* * *

Frodo.

_Frodo._

_Frodo... Yes. That is my name. _

He must remember, yes, he was sure of that, of course that's my name! If redness and its macabre majesty encroached his vision he wouldn't mind... Just concentrate on going on, going on. Yes, into that fire, and further on, and maybe a Lord stood waiting somewhere? Not too tall, or too terrible, just a Lord waiting for what was his-

No, no, Frodo! Frodo!

Yes, of course, questing. Bilbo, I miss you so much, but I wouldn't want you here, dear uncle, where you'd tear the pages of your precious book. Did you know I dropped Sting? I'm dreadfully sorry, but then again there wasn't much of a choice, then, oh uncle, you would have loved to see it! - Or would you? Maybe not. Maybe not. I suppose it looked a little like Smaug, just bigger and blacker... But you killed the dragon, uncle. I wish you were there. And there's always this little thing, weighing on my chest, don't suppose you'd like to see it again? Just-

_Frodo._

No, I'm sorry, I have to lose it, and lose you, and you'll lose me, oh I'm sorry, uncle, but I must. But the Ring was a nice legacy, uncle, yes it was, though it came with so much pain and trouble, and- he was tired but struggling but hopeful but- the world will go on. The world will live and the people will learn to laugh again, they always do, somehow... As they craft exquisite stone flowers, no, no, Frodo, alright, well he was here. Like little marionettes splintered by a cruel hand, they'd smile again and _real_ blossoms would grow in the hills and meadows far away, and the world would be green. He could do that, and smile, and, yes, Frodo was his name. He remembered that. And he had to throw this Ring in. And then... and then he'd just sit here with his feet dangling over the edges, perhaps, and dream into eternity. Yes, that would be nice.

_Frodo..._

Maybe if I sang-

_For the road goes ever on and on, _

_Down to the place where- it began..._

No...

Yes, that's it, the light screaming across a raw horizon, and gold, gold everywhere. Gold to kiss, gold to revel, gold to throw up in the air, I'm drowning in air. Soft sweet dusk and the smell of pine trees, no, they don't grow here, nothing does. But how could it hurt to dream? _Hurt to dream, hurt to dream? _Heard that before, somewhere. Dream, yes, of holes in the ground and little round green doors and golden rings I love them so...

_Frodo!_

The next step cost him his upright state, and as his legs gave and his cheek struck the ground again he sighed. Well, he'd gotten up Mount Doom on hands and knees, it was just a few steps away, he was there. At last. A small grey figure crawling, fingerhold by fingerhold, singing to the tune of the troubled fires and a Ring that pulsed against his palm, but he wasn't going there again... was he? No, no. Frodo. He'd just hold on a while- just a while- then he could sleep with his Ring. _Frodo, _no, not his Ring, but his to destroy... he'd promised...

Iron and steel. I am Frodo Baggins and I do not break promises. I do not.

* * *

Legolas had never felt so _human._

So vulnerable, so helpless, so weak, so incredible, and when Aragorn's eyes opened- the look of weary triumph and quiet joy in them too much for Legolas to bear- and then closed, his heart ripped itself apart vein by vein, vessel by vessel, and then put it all back together again, but not quite right. But that was- that was war.

He thought of a young Ranger with serious eyes and steadfast heart giving so eagerly, as if his hope could salvage everything that was broken, one too young to know that some things cannot be healed, and wise enough not to want to learn. One who, through all the bitter draughts that fate had served him, had kept faithful to a hope that never wavered, a beacon that guided _estel _to the crown and the scepter and all he was meant to be, a spirit that'd never really given up believing that somehow he should be able to heal all the world's hurts and the man whose hope had been offered so freely to everyone who chanced by.

But it was the man he wept for, not the hope, he mused as Gimli's low cry of deep, soul-tearing grief echoed through the hall. It was for the young Estel who had watched with artless admiration as the Prince of Mirkwood fired shot after shot at the target. For the ranger he'd met seventy years later, worn and exhausted and injured, under the boughs of the trees of Lasgalen, dragging a wretched creature after him through sheer will. For the man he'd grown to love over quiet watches as Gil-Estel sailed overhead, over fireside laughter in stolen moments of levity under the darkening shadow, over the lands of Eregion and the peaks of Caradhras and the mines of Moria and the woods of Lórien and the waters of Anduin and the slopes of Amon Hen. Over the plains of Rohan and the fields of Gondor and the White City standing so tall. He'd followed this _Dúnadan _across a world and given his heart along the way- and now-

And now the man was gone, and Legolas bowed his head in the emptiness of his heart and this hall, and bade farewell to his friend, gone now perhaps to seek the source of the Flame so Imperishable that sustained the longing and the painful, beautiful belief of all these fragile, brilliant mortals, and Legolas envied the Gift for the first time in the midst of Gondor's frailty, envied with a forlorn desolation the freedom granted to those of the Secondborn, for the Elves would endure to the end of time tied to Arda and all its darknesses, and he could not bear that alone.

"Legolas?"

Oh, not alone.

No, not alone.

This child of Mahal stood firm beside him, and through the tears that marred Gimli's face he saw the pure strength that pulsed deep in his spirit, that called him to battle and fight despair and all shadow with the song of the stubborn in his veins. And hope was not so far that he could not see it.

"Yes, Gimli."

Maybe the hope that this man had held was released into the grief of the two standing guard over him, and that- that was so endearingly _Estel_ that Legolas couldn't grieve, couldn't mourn, not with such things to do and such dreams to dream and such hope to live, and though the tears wet Aragorn's dark hair he was not weeping for the King's death but for the joy of the King's life.

So they sat, the two of them- it was always the two of them, waiting, in the room that would ring forever of Gondor's blood...

* * *

...And far away, two Hobbits stumbled through the smoke of burning grass in the Shire, the Shire, but it wasn't green anymore. It was black and terrifying but they clutched each other and went on, until a hand fell heavily on each small shoulder and, slowly, shaking, but with such childlike courage that the White Wizard hesitated just the shortest moment before he took them for his own, and the white robes turned just that bit redder with the blood of little ones.

* * *

But long ago he'd been here, hadn't he? But no the Man, foolish Man, weak Man, beautiful Man, fallen to his sweet playful wiles and borne him away, an heirloom, yes, but no, no. I'm a Hobbit, Hobbits don't have no need for trinkets no, but why why not? Eternal you're everlasting oh I don't believe the way you dream! Devour!

You chew on my organs- a little to the left is my heart, yes, but you knew that, didn't you? If I just waited four minutes maybe you'd gobble all of me, greedy like you are, and all that's left is a hand clutching a Ring? No, can't do that yet, can't, defy hunger defy everything for gold. No, not for gold, never for gold. Just for people. And quiet hearts beating in death's hollow grasp. It kisses you so carefully, you know, like it could make a wrong move and you'll wake up, but no no one comes back from across that endless divide. No one.

And all is lost. No! Not yet. Stop singing, now's not the time, you left me dreaming still, but I have to wake up, yes, to golden eyes, or was it golden hair? Or, oh, maybe gold like a circle of fire and forever. In my hand. In _my_ hand, my little little hand, there's gold! Like the dragon's hoard! But bigger, yes, must be- What's this? Rock?

Scorched? I don't remember... Yes, fire, yes. Of course! All the red, foolish child, what else were you thinking? Red, like apples, like blood, like mine heart as it spills and twines around gold, gold and red, yes, they fit, don't they? Like royalty and lions, they go together, always have, always will, no, no my blood is just... just... coming, warm and salty like the sweat on my brow, pressing against my cheek, dandelions blowing in the cursed wind- oh, make a wish! But in the majesty of eternal moons I find myself twirling with the hands of the sun that burn against- me-

Tendrils of the needy wound round my eyes, blindfolded to- a supreme contentment just waiting, far across the lands I live, the paths I must walk. True. Time is like the sea, the immeasurable sea, for they roll and curl and wash up in waves and tides and sometimes they bring things from far shores but steal lives like thieves in the depth of night... and time... and water... I see shores, green shores, on the horizon- No! Is it just a mirage? It cannot be, oh, it cannot. It can't be gone like the barest wisps of smoke from the fires long after the ashes are cooled, _hopeful youth, _youngling wait for me, linger just a while- Death! They don't wait for anyone. Spun from the loom of the gods as they taste the wine of human blood, and gold, like gold wound through their hair it'll never leave- gold-

Belonging, longing, a tale you heard long ago and a breath of a kiss on your forehead... go back, Frodo, go back... no run! Run! They're coming! Icy like the fingers of winter creeping down your spine, searching, piercing, ravaging, like a beast, you are, my shoulder! Cold magnificent witch kings coming for me _all the time _but no, it's all right, I'll just keep this close and everything will be fine, no? Another step. So close now. To what? No it's mine! No! Frodo! I am, yes, Frodo Frodo Frodo that's my name I came here to- to destroy-

Oh, why?

Do I have to? Maybe- no I have to get there, go, go! Frodo! Another step! Yes! So close! Maybe... maybe... no, no aching of loneliness in my scarred heart anymore, nothing can heal everything. I've hurt. But even you can't keep me safe anymore. I have to. I have to.

* * *

"Gondor is fallen! Gondor is taken! Retreat, retreat!"

But they just sat there, staring with a loving hope, waiting, waiting. The end of the Age marched on with its slow, irrevocable steps, implacable in all its majesty. What good would retreating do? The shadow would devour all. No, they would stay here till the end or worse, their bond intensifying recklessly over the body of the one called Hope, and below them the valiant Men finally, finally admitted their defeat to the foe that had assailed them so tirelessly for so long, but still they did not run, even as... even as...

The skies darkened as great shadows grew and the fire-mountains to the East rumbled ominously. _Stand! Here where our fate is decided! Stand, Men of Gondor!_

_Stand._

And let it not be said that the Elf and the Dwarf would stand back when called! That the bow and the axe would lie idle when the song of metal was in the air! One last time, Gimli of Dwarves and Legolas of Elves rose, and they went to war, two figures striding through that darkened door to meet the foe, no longer content to sit and wait as their doom was set. _No. This is not how Elves or Dwarves die._

But as they came out into the blood-stained sunshine Legolas stood very still, as the earth itself shuddered in helpless, desperate anticipation, and he turned his face to the East, and a choked sound of mingled hope and sorrow escaped his lips. Gimli glanced anxiously up into the face, carven in stone, ageless as the sun above them, but he could discern nothing from the far-seeing eyes. Then Legolas looked down, and his expression melted into fear and joy and horror and love and he breathed, "It is being done. It is being decided, everything. Oh, Frodo-"

Gimli held his breath as, unbearably, the world seemed to pause. Frodo, their little one, their brave one, walking across the whole world on those bare feet, and he was there and their King hadn't died in vain and, Mahal give us strength, maybe those moments when Aragorn wrestled with the Dark Lord had given Frodo that chance... that one chance...

So that in the heart of that terrible mountain that loomed in the east there was their small friend with the faithful heart, seeing his dreadful task through to its dreadful end, and they stood here as the earth shook and the heavens trembled, all in reverence on this moment, and the flash of sunlight on the metal of swords as they clashed in a a battle for Gondor, but for the war that they'd pledged themselves to- there was a Hobbit.

Standing against the Dark Lord- or, perhaps, no. That was not what Frodo Baggins was there to do. The warriors and the soldiers and the one Man who could draw the great Eye would do the fighting, and Frodo, little, stubborn Frodo, would slip beneath Sauron's lifted arm and cast his being into the hungry fires where it was made...

A chill ran down Gimli's spine, aching in its icy ferocity, and he forced down a cry.

_Fear._

A long, raw, bitterly angry shriek rent the air, a heavy boot struck the ground, and he _could not move._

_Despair._

Scream rang out from terrified soldiers as they stumbled back, cowed into surrender at this sudden foe. He stood firm.

_Hopelessness._

"_No," _Legolas breathed beside him, before the Elf's face hardened, the ageless features settling into a cold mask.

_Loneliness._

His hand found his axe, fingers stroking the handle. His hand tightened.

_Now._

With twin cries of courage they turned, and the axe and the bow lifted in this battle of all battles, two beleagured companions, last of their Company, fighting back to back against this once-great king and for all that they had lost and for all that they had learnt. When the Dwarf stumbled the Elf's knives defended him, and when the Elf faltered the Dwarf's axe sang a song of war and cut down his enemies, but through it all neither strayed far from their target, for their hearts of vengeance were toward the Witch-king.

_Nazgûl, _terror of the bleak downs long ago when Arnor was ravaged. _Ringwraiths, _slaves to his eternal will. _Fell riders, _coming with doom in their hands. _Merciless, _hounders of all that was good. _Cruel, _thiefs of so many innocent lives over the long ages of their histories. _Black-hearts, _conquerers of the City of the Moon, now forever tainted. Most of all, most of all, _evil. Evil. _Frodo, and the Steward's second son, and Osgiliath, and the Dúnedain an age past, and all those whose lives and hopes and dreams had been destroyed so ruthlessly by these relentless servants of evil...

Courage, in the end, does not win battles.

Anger does.

And anger did, that desolate day on the barren fields of the Pelennor where so much blood soaked the soil. Anger drove the axe of Gimli, son of the mountain, as it sank into that dark crown, cleaving the black helmet in two, and anger drove the arrow of Legolas, child of the trees, as it flew straight and true, striking that ignoble head through, and with a terrible, unimaginable ululation of pain and fear and bitter, bitter hatred the Witch-king fell.

* * *

_Far of yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall._

_Glorfindel, to __Eärnur_

* * *

Ghosts across his cheek, and they were gone. Here, at the end, at the beginning, at the place where everything would come in the end... The mountain of doom, no? Of course, of course. _Alone_ is this eternity? I don't want it! No!

Climbing up... step by step by pain and strength and small bones cracking against big mountain... But no, I'm up already, isn't that all? No, some things left I have to do, I've been saved! Angels. And demon's infernoes licking at my feet beneath this great stone monument to our stupidity and our cruelty, no, not mine! Do leave. No! Come back- no. I-

I'm here- I'm here! At the very edge, fire, down below! Look over the rock with my feet jutting over and see, red and hot and pulsing passionate a heart of doom... I'm captivated! To the tune of the brittle rhapsody, dancing a dirge all of my own making, sweet heavens the stars pulse red and blue and kiss me one last time-

And- And-

Suddenly he was so alone in this darkest of all places. Suddenly he could think again, so clearly, but oh, so coldly. Suddenly it did not matter than the whole world was balancing on the edge of this cliff with him, did not matter that the Dark Lord was approaching, did not matter that he'd set out to do something and he'd never given up before.

For one awful moment, it didn't even matter that he'd loved so many people and he did love so many people- because in the end, it wasn't for Sam or Merry or Pip or the Shire of the Fellowship or Middle-earth because he couldn't remember- Sam's voice and Merry's laugh and Pippin's smile and the Shire in springtime- and the smell of fresh grass and the taste of clear water- nothing-

_And far away two little Hobbits huddled together beneath the lengthening shadow of a white Wizard._

It was all dark and he could see no light, not for so long. The desperation that had borne him thus far had burnt out, and there was nothing left, but the shell of a soul leeched from the innocent heart, and once the Ring was gone, there would be nothing. Nothing at all. But, sweet merciful Eru, is there no respite for one who's laboured so long? So far? Those who need to fly, fly, those who need to rest, rest, those who need to destroy...

And why was he here, one small thing at the end of an Age? So fragile, so weak, so tired. He didn't even know which direction the end of the path was in, so how was he supposed to throw this accursed, gorgeous Ring in? He couldn't see. Nothing.

_And far away two friends stood together, last of the Fellowship, and held to the faltering hope._

Fierce manacles chaining him to a duty he would do or break himself trying, loosening- loosening- and soon there would be nothing left tying him to this dreadful world and he'd fly- he'd be free-

Like the great eagles that rode the crest of dawn across the timeless horizon, but he'd never bear anyone ever again, never have to. No more burdens. Just- float in the exquisite gentle embrace of the sun and when he finally, _finally,_ laid himself down to the soft sweet perfection of rest he'd sleep forever. Just one last thing, Frodo, one last thing and then… and then…

He'd be a starburst over the thunderous sky and it would crack the world in half but he would be above that, above everything and love.

_And far away lay the body of a King..._

All that was his life arced against the glorious sky in a frozen second of everything that was beautiful... just one thing.

One thing.

One brilliant burst of energy and light that conquered the darkness so fearlessly one final move into the flames one more sacrifice _one more._

_And of course he could do this, because for this one fleeting undemanding moment at the end of his time he remembered, and was, and loved again, with all the wholeness and sweetness of mind and body and soul that was once his. Frodo Baggins, a gentle-spirited, slightly odd Hobbit living at the edge of Shire activities, and he had a gardener who worshipped him with all his simple heart, and Sam, I love you, and Merry and Pip, I love you, and Bilbo, I love you (so much), the Shire, and the Elves, the beautiful mysterious elves, and Legolas and Elrohir and Elladan and Gimli and Strider... Deep roots are not reached by the frost..._

_And he could see, or perhaps it was his unleashed love encompassing two worlds, he could see a young Hobbit lad just past his majority with a trowel in hand and unruly locks and steady brown eyes, in a garden of all the flowers he'd ever known, and Sam was waiting in that place where no evil can reach, beyond the circles of the world..._

And flawlessly, flawlessly, Frodo strode forward with an uncanny confidence and when he stepped over the edge it was a moment of dooming ecstasy and glorious misery and triumph of someone so little against the terror of the world, and as he melted into nothing but lava and a hand clutching a Ring Frodo fell into a sleep as peaceful as the river singing to the grass...

* * *

**Note: **Now, on Glorfindel's prophecy, I am well aware that the lack of capitalisation of the M in _men_ most likely means that he was referring to 'men' as in 'male', not 'Men, the race'. However, it has been raised that _Merry _was most certainly male, but he played a part in the downfall of the Witch-king as well! In that case, we would take 'men' in the loosest form possible, in other words, it could _either_ mean male (Éowyn, race of Men but not male) _or_ Men (Merry, male but not strictly from the race of Men). With this, working on the Merry theory, the prophecy could also conceivably be carried out by Legolas or Gimli, both of whom are male but not of the race of Men.

**Note 2: **I believe I wrote in Chapter 13, in reference to Éowyn's death, that _'...the Witch-king would live.' _I will be sure to remedy that once I have the time, but for the time being, do humour me and try not to think about it!

Okay, now that's over (do drop your thoughts on it if you have any!) I do want to say a most heartfelt thank you to all readers and reviewers; it's been a wonderful experience and I know I have you to thank for that! There will be an epilogue coming soon, which will hopefully provide some closure and answers to the Gandalf, Arwen and Elrohir questions.

And, of course, reviews, please!


	20. Epilogue

_Midsummer's Day, T.A. 3019_

They cast off the ship with such ease, as if it had been waiting too long and was eager to leave, eager to bring them home.

It was a day that tasted of sweet musk and autumn leaves, though it was summer. Above them the clouds were heavy with unshed tears, and they hung ominously over the sky as if reluctant to let go. There was no one on the shore behind them, no one left whose presence would have weighted the ship with the burden of a long, fulfilled farewell, and far above the seagulls screamed as they wheeled across the horizon.

Four individuals reclined on the deck of the small, but regal, ship. It was well-made, the prow proud as befitted the last great elven lords and ladies of Middle-earth. And at the stern, face turned to the receding shoreline with a strange mixture of grief, regret and doubt warring on the weathered face, stood a Dwarf strong and firm, feet planted wide on the elven ship. Gimli, son of Glóin, gave the only home he had known one last look, and turned, stubborn resolution on that stubborn face.

The victim of that resolution was draped with ease on a railing clearly meant for the dainty hands of ladies as they descended to the lower deck, not for the seating of irreverent elven princes, golden hair blowing in the wind as his eyes followed the seagulls in their lazy dance, captivated by the strangeness of these birds he'd never seen before. He looked to his smaller friend as the Dwarf approached, a small smile touching his lips.

"Are you come to tell me of your no doubt ridiculous plan to leap off this deck and swim back to Middle-earth?"

Gimli glared at him.

Melodious laughter erased the scowl off his face, even if it held a discordant note that jarred even Gimli's untrained ears. The second Elf on board was arrayed in grace and magnificence on the grand seat of a wooden bench, though she somehow managed to look as if she was seated on a throne embedded with mithril. Her gold-spun hair sparkled in the sun reflecting off the waters, and Gimli restrained a gasp anew at the sight of her.

"Come, my lady, we shall not intrude upon their... disagreement." Gimli turned his attention to the Elf at Galadriel's side, and bowed hastily again. If he'd been to stunned by the Lady's beauty to take much note of her lord at their first meeting, he was swiftly learning his mistake. Celeborn of Doriath presented a no less impressive picture than his wife, commanding deference with his very bearing. The silver lord was sitting on the floor in a pose that would have looked exceedingly undignified on anyone else, but, with the same perplexing ability as his wife, he was able to look like a King welcoming a guest.

The two untouchable faces were ageless, he thought once more as he watched the lines of Galadriel's smile fade seamlessly into the magnificent features. But in their eyes he read a weariness that ran deeper than the tragedy of triumph in this Age. And as his eyes travelled to the perfect white hand and the emptiness that seemed to resonate off the ring finger, he sorrowed in his heart for the hollowness that surrounded the morning star.

But even that was nothing to the profound, echoing agony that hung around the figure of the last member aboard this ship. Elrond Peredhel's eyes were dark as the night sky bereft of the moon and all its dream-held stars, and Gimli felt a sick pain rise in his already fractured soul for this kind lord who'd welcomed him to graciously to Imladris, haven of the Elves. The grief that the half-elf endured spoke of so much more than the loss of a mere Ring, and Gimli shut his eyes to the eternal elegy that would play in his ears at the first thought of the Peredhil children.

And yet... these Elves, these Elves who would sorrow forever, with no bitter gift to sunder their shattered hearts from their immortal bodies. Celeborn and Galadriel had each other, but love can only do so much in the face of the pain they had tasted. A beautiful silver queen waited for Elrond on the shores of Aman, but even she could never heal the rift left by a war and three children, and who would comfort Legolas?

"My friends," he forced out, trying not to think about the fact that he was advising Elves who'd probably been alive during the time of Durin the Deathless. He waited patiently as Legolas tore his gaze from the birds ahead, as the Lord and the Lady moved their gazes from each other to him, and finally, as the Lord of Rivendell raised his eyes to meet his.

"We have seen sorrow," He paused, fumbling for the words to express the sentiment he feared would overwhelm him and engulf all of them in the bitterness of its celebration. "We have seen such sorrow. Loss. The dooms of those we love. And now we sail- take the path of joy to run from the grief. But I do not believe Valinor works this way.

"It is Elvenhome! I am a Dwarf, but even I can see that the light in your eyes is dimmed, and your bodies grow translucent, with pale beauty as tragic as the fallen moon itself. It may be that the sight of green shores and the light of silver water and the _air_ in this place you all need so much will heal you, but my lords and lady, for all my hope I cannot see it. Not for you.

"And I would grieve, I would. For four beings who have given all and sacrificed all. Whose very lives have been commanded by the needs of the war. Who, more than any others, deserve rest, and peace, and healing.

"_You_ told me," he cried out, turning in desperation to Legolas, pinning him with the raw emotion of his gaze, "you told me. Of how Valinor is, when we spoke of Elrohir's grief, that it would be healed in this heart-home of your kin. But," sorrow took hold, "I was right! Legolas, please, I was _right!_ Aman holds no hope for those who can see no hope!

"So see it! I beg you, see it! For I cannot bear to see you fade!"

The silence that took hold was more agonising than any Gimli had endured in all his years, but he waited. When Legolas spoke, it was in a voice which reflected long years of fighting and a final surrender, and it tore Gimli's heart in two.

"If there is no hope left for those we leave behind, I would not seek it for myself. Not when the one who bore that name is gone."

"But there _is_ hope left for the Age of Men!"

"I cannot see it," Legolas whispered, and turned his face west.

Gimli felt a despair ancient as the mountains well in his heart, and with a sigh he cast down his eyes. No one could save those who had given up.

Then a gentle hand touched his, the brush of its presence ethereal as the sylphs of joy that ghosted across his heart, sometimes. His breath caught inaudibly, as he looked up into the fathomless gaze of Lady Galadriel. He watched, captivated, as the faded orbs caught a spark of fire again, or was it a trick of the light? Her quiet, knowing eyes searched his face, but it was all taken up with wonder all over again.

"Gimli, Glóin's son... Once again you prove the strength of the Dwarves." She rose again and went to the fore of the ship, looking to the setting sun that painted their path in gold-hued splendor on the everlasting waters. _The Straight Path._

But all Gimli saw was the shadow of an august star, fading with the sun on this great, terrible Age.

And yet when she turned once again there was the faintest glimmer of joy in the ravaged soul, and he saw it- he saw it. The slightest tilt to her chin, the sudden softening of the angel-carven features, when, for a moment, he glimpsed the unrivalled glory of the fair-haired princess of the Noldor and the Teleri in Ages long past, and belief sprung anew in his soul.

He turned, encouraged, to the silver lord, watching his lady with the barest wistful smile on his lips, and his heart beat faster. If there was life yet to live these two would grasp it together, and learn to rejoice again, for they had survived the joys and sorrows of three Ages of this world- they could not be defeated by the last, surely not!

He turned to his wayward elf, a plea on his lips and in his face, but it died away at the brightness in the gaze that looked forevermore to the birds in the heavens above. Legolas had returned to his initial position, and with the dying sun on his face the hollows in the unmarred face were shadowed, giving the young Elf the pathetic beauty of patient suffering. Gimli choked back a cry.

But finally Legolas looked at him, and through the tears the blue eyes shone the clearer.

"Maybe there is, Gimli," Legolas murmured, "Maybe there is. And even if there is not, I could never let a Dwarf keep hope while an Elf did not." And what twisted his lips was not quite a smile, but it was near enough, and Gimli sent a heartfelt prayer of thanks to Mahal and whoever else had a hand in this.

"Of course not, my friend," he managed, "I would never let you forget it."

"A substantial threat," a soft voice interjected, and Gimli drew in his breath sharply at the first sign of life from the fourth Elf aboard. He turned, and his words collapsed in his throat at the Elf-lord's kind eyes watching him.

"My- my lord," he managed, and bowed. This startled a smile to Elrond's lips.

"Do not bow to me, Gimli."

"You would do well to obey him, Dwarf." Legolas said, turning on his side so his body balanced precariously on the slender railing as one leg curled elegantly around a pillar. "I speak from experience."

"Do not be impertinent, young one," Elrond offered dryly, and though the brokenness at the heart of his shadowed eyes did not abate, his voice lightened, and Gimli counted it a victory for hope, or at least, its memory.

"And pray cease performing such balancing acts," Gimli added, a hint of mirth leaking into his voice. "Not all here are used to seeing flighty Elves perched on unlikely places."

"You are chastised, young prince- and by a Dwarf, no less!" Elrond turned his now noticeably amused gaze to Legolas, who frowned darkly and stared off into the sky while apparently composing a retort.

"You are a staunch fellow, son of Glóin," the lord spoke softly, but the gentle admiration in his voice was clear, and Gimli was flustered and, to his own mortification, as delighted as a young Dwarf receiving praise from his captain. Though, he supposed, it was not so very far from what was happening. Elrond was the Mariner's son, after all, and perhaps aboard a ship captaincy was hereditary...

"Nay, I would not say that. I was merely tired of the persistant aura of misery emanating off you elves."

Legolas smiled, but the melancholy waxed again in his voice as he spoke, looking suddenly to the West to which they were sailing.

"Is there?"

"What?"

"What?"

"Is there what?" Gimli replied patiently, mentally repeating the list of reasons why he shouldn't get angry, shouldn't get angry, shouldn't get angry...

"Hope. For the world."

And he didn't get angry. In fact, the last vestiges of annoyance drained away, and he sighed a little. Trust an Elf to return suddenly to a topic he'd thought they'd dropped, and assume that everyone could follow his mental acrobatics.

"I think so," he replied softly. "I do... I do believe so."

"How can there be?" The question was honest, and if Gimli admitted it practical. The land they'd left behind had been wounded beyond recognition, the people stunned by the sudden victory and its devastating cost, and the one person who could have united the broken pieces...

"There is always hope," Gimli turned hurriedly, inwardly noting once again to pay attention when he was on a boat with four extremely stealthy Elves. In fact, he thought at times they weren't even trying to be- they just were that way. He sighed and listened with respect as the Lord of the Woods spoke.

"You underestimate the world of Men, young one," Celeborn continued, his eyes watching the East with almost as much longing as his lady watched the West. "They fall easily, but they rise easily, too. They laugh till they cry and then they cry till they laugh and then they laugh because they find themselves amusing. I fear the glory of the reunited kingdoms is not to be, but there is hope yet. Do not doubt it."

"Our _estel_ paid the price, in a different way, for his kingdom," Galadriel took up the speech smoothly, "and, oh, how we grieve for it."

"And for those who followed," Legolas said quietly, and bowed his head. Pain crossed the Lady's eyes, but she continued.

"But the Men he led will see it differently. They are used, these mortals, to planting and watering a tree so that their grandchildren will enjoy its shade. They will mourn him, but his death will inspire them to greater heights yet as they try to honour his life, and that is where their hope yet lies. All Men die. They have learnt to bear it, and to rejoice in a life well lived. They will not give up- neither should you."

Gimli blinked, feeling slightly winded- such large and sudden amounts of advice were unaccustomed to his ears, for the wisdom of the Dwarves was closely guarded, and when divulged, was given through a few gruff words. That is one thing you will have to get used to, he told himself firmly, setting his sights resolutely to the West._ That is your new life. So it will be._

There was nothing left in Middle-earth for him, any more than there was for Legolas, for Elrond, for Galadriel and Celeborn. His return to the Lonely Mountain had been lonely indeed. The barren land was empty. The Dwarves had fallen.

He found he could not bear to stay with the survivors, either, for now he knew that they would fade into nothing as ashes gone with the wind, and the Age of Men was at hand. His heart grieved for the loss of the Dwarves' hopes even as it cleaved stubbornly to the one friend he still loved enough to make life worth living.

So he'd followed them, these four broken elves, onto this ship and into the unknown. Whether he could set foot onto their long home he still did not know, but the look in Galadriel's eye when he'd spoken of it was encouraging. He doubted anyone could deny her anything in her full power.

"But the pain we bear will not disappear to the Gift, nor be soothed by the song of the sea. Or at least, mine will not. I am sorry, Gimli," Legolas added, sudden gratitude to his firm Dwarven companion in his heart. "I cannot. At times," his voice was low now, with guilt and sorrow and a hint of longing. "I fear I understand the choices of Elrohir and Arwen."

Elrond tensed immediately, and Celeborn and Galadriel looked up sharply. "Nay, do not yearn for what is not yours. The fate of the Elves is yours to embrace, child. Not the Gift of Men of the choices of the Peredhil."

Gimli felt a terrible, choking darkness take hold as he remembered the desolate grief in Legolas' eyes when they met again in Imladris, the grey cloaking the once-merry valley and hushing the celebrations of Sauron's downfall. The two remaining Peredhil children were gone, treading lonely paths across the mountains, brother and sister at the end of all their hopes. They would make their homes, for what it was worth, amongst the splintered remains of the people of their foster brother, would lay down their immortality to taste the bittersweet gift to mortal men. They had turned from the Twilight, and the Eldar had lost them forever. And the line of the Peredhil was ended.

"You are young, Prince of Greenwood." Galadriel's voice softened. "And you have lived all your years in Arda Marred, watching the shadow lengthen. Fear no more, Legolas Thranduilion, sorrow no more. That which lies at the end of the Straight Road will heal your spirit, will soothe your soul. And in that knowledge hope! For not all lands are as terrible as the Middle-earth we have fought for."

She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes, and it seemed to Gimli that something came over Legolas, not hope, but maybe the acknowledgement of it, and he let out a sigh. He would heal.

"Those we have lost would be proud," Gimli spoke suddenly, for he was moved to do so. "They would."

"My father," Legolas breathed, and shut his eyes. He shot a careful look at Elrond, and went on. "Elladan. Elrohir. Arwen, Estel, Boromir, Frodo, Sam, Mithrandir..."

The air shuddered at the sound of the beloved names, but it was the earth-shaking joy of release. The slow, solemn litany of the beautiful dead went on, the five speaking in easy harmony as they added people here and there, precious, irreplaceable memories which shook the sky and the sea with the light of their loving honour. Together they stood together, four Elves and a Dwarf, and in their hearts each remembered the fallen with all they had. Yes, Gimli thought, with a surge of his own pride, they would.

He saw a look of startled, joyful realisation pass across the faces of the Lord and the Lady, and he wondered.

"Mithrandir," Galadriel spoke first. "_Olórin. _Could it be?"

"What do you speak of?" Legolas's confusion was clear. "Did not he and Saruman destroy each other?"

"But they are Maiar, and not restrained to the confines of their bodies. Oh, Celeborn, could it be?" Sudden hope had granted them a fleeting glimpse into Galadriel's usually well-guarded heart, and Gimli's own nigh broke at the beauty and sorrow of it. Then her words registered, and the painfully wonderful possibility took his breath away. _Hope. Mahal's beard, hope!_

The great, intangible _perhaps_ gave them all pause, and for a long time they stood silently, staring with unseeing eyes at the sea and wondering, hoping, dreaming that maybe not all ties were shattered when they left the Havens, and maybe this grey ship would bear them to more reunions than they had thought possible, and Gimli's heart trembled at the sheer immensity of what he had not known. _Could it be? _

"But they will forget." When Legolas spoke again, breaking the long silence born of conflicting new hope and cautious doubt, his tone was pensive, but not imbued with the weary desperation that had so frightened all of them, and Gimli looked up in surprise. These were Elves. He'd been under the impression that they remembered everything.

"When we reach the West," he continued, a little sadly, "the Men will forget, sooner or later. They will forget what it cost to build them this chance at life, and the deeds of the heroes of the War will fade to legends..."

"That is the fate of all heroes," Gimli spoke suddenly. "Or perhaps not as long as the Elves were there, stewards of lore and history. But you immortals do not understand. To be legend is, to mortals, the highest honour. It is legends which give us hope in our darkest times. You may remember the first Dwarf-lord of Moria, just as you remember your ancient Kings. But for us, for us in our fleeting brilliance we draw strength from the vague myths that are sung to the children as they fall to sleep. Do not grieve for that, Legolas. West of the sea you may ensure that none will forget, but east of it they will be the legends, the story and song passed from father to son over the long ages and that is how it should be."

Legolas looked to him in surprise, and Gimli saw a new respect in his gaze. Then he smiled, and Gimli's heart lightened at the sight of it. Yes, this flighty elf would live again.

"The stars," The young prince murmured suddenly, and Gimli started as he realised night had fallen around them, cloaking them in a mantle of mystery and beauty as the sky's lights began to appear.

"Gil-estel." Celeborn pointed, and his gaze turned on Elrond. He smiled. But Gimli watched, quietly awed, as the lord rose and went to the prow, seemingly drawn inexorably to the gentle light that bathed him in starshine and, impossibly, kindled a light in the dark eyes again, and the Star of Hope sailed across the fathomless depths of the eternal sky. _A light, when all other lights go out._ Gimli started, turning to the Lady, but she merely looked back at him, amusement and a moment of fresh, fleeting delight mingling in her face. For that, that immeasurably beautiful star was the source of the light Galadriel had gifted to Frodo, and wonder choked him. A great joy welled in Gimli's heart, and for the first time he wondered with eager anticipation what lay beyond the sundering seas in this place where none of his kin had had the chance to explore, and a thirst for new adventure was planted in his breast. _Hope._

_"Yes," _Legolas breathed, and Gimli saw the radiance of the stars reflected in his eyes, "_Estel. _To trust in the sky's depths."

"Yes, young _Thranduilion_," Galadriel replied, and Gimli heard her smile in her voice before he turned to her. "Believe in the unknown. There is nothing more beautiful."

Legolas looked at the star for a long moment, and when he met Gimli's gaze again, the Dwarf saw the light in his eyes, diminished, but not destroyed. He settled with satisfaction on the floor, leaning his head back against the railing upon which the Elf still insisted on crouching, and together they sketched in their heads the star as it traversed the star-studded, night-kissed sky, and though the echo of despair still lingered in their spirits they rejoiced in the new life that stretched out before them in vague promise, untamed possibilities of what their worlds could still be. And there _was_ hope.

Celeborn and Galadriel had retreated to the other deck with a gleam in Celeborn's eye and a curl of Galadriel's lip which made Gimli extremely uncomfortable, but he saw the peace soothing the raging sorrow in them and he was glad for it. Slowly the night wore on and he fell to sleep more easily than he had in many days, and above him the dream-glazed eyes of an Elf showed the ranging spirit on the paths of Elven sleep.

But Elrond stood at the prow, still and silent as a statue carved from the well-worn stone of resilience and endurance, and he charted his father's sojourn through the night with wistful persistence and a semblance of hope. And as night lightened to day, and the first hints of morning blossomed into the dawn, he let out a breath and remembered a day in December not so long ago when he debated a crucial point with a stubborn wizard, and he bowed his head.

"Maybe you were right, Grey Pilgrim," he whispered, and the last night breeze stole his words, gliding free across the calm seas. "Maybe you were right."

* * *

_And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise._

_- ROTK, The Grey Havens_

* * *

**Notes:**

I initially intended to have Elrohir and Arwen take their own lives in despair, but well, as a friend told me in no uncertain terms, these are the children of Elrond, the grandchildren of Celeborn and Galadriel, Eärendil and Elwing, born of the line of Thingol and Melian, Beren and Lúthien, through Idril and Tuor Turgon of Gondolin, and further back Finwë, High King... In them is mixed the blood of Maiar, the High Houses of the Eldar and the Edain, and I don't think they would give up that easily!

_And Aragorn the King Elessar wedded Arwen Undómiel in the the City of the Kings upon the day of Midsummer, and the tale of their long waiting and labours was come to fulfillment._

_- Return of the King, The Steward and the King_

I set this epilogue on that day. I found a sort of poetic, awful irony to it all that this day of joy should be the day, in this darker version, that these five weary warriors would sail.

* * *

Now that it's over, thank you so much to all readers who have bothered to follow this journey to its end! Today, December 7th, marks a year from the day I first published this story, full of doubt and (I admit) a painful amount of typos! This was my first work posted and I was startled by the warmth and kindness of many people here, and I guess all I can say is thank you, so much.


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